UC-NRLF 


B    3    315    b37 


HRtt 


*     f 


CLLA 
WM  EELER 
Wl  LCOX 


GIFT  OF 
John   Cheney 


THREE  WOMEN 


BY 


ELLA  WHEELER   WlLCOX 


Author  of  "Poems  of  Passion,"    "Maurine,"    "Poems  of 

Pleasure,"  "How  Salvator  Won,"  "Custer  and  Other 

Poems,"   "Men,  Women  and   Emotions," 

44  The  Beautiful  Land  of  Nod,"  Etc 


CHICAGO-NEW  YORK 
W.  B.  COXKEY   COMPAN'Y 

PUBLISHERS 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1897.  by 

ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


Made  in  the  United  States.   t 
**  *    /  '..*   •  I/**  J 

••    r .  *    -     «  •*  *  V. 


6 


THREE   WOMEN 


My  hue  is  young,  so  young; 

Young  is  her  cheek,  and  her  throat, 
And  life  is  a  song  to  be  sung 

With  love  the  word  for  each  note. 

Young  is  her  cheek  and  her  throat; 

Her  eyes  have  the  smile  o'  May. 
And  hue  is  the  word  for  each  note 

In  the  song  of  my  life  to-day. 

Her  eyes  haue  the  smile  o'  May; 

Her  heart  is  the  heart  of  a  dove, 
And  the  song  of  my  life  to-day 

Is  hue,  beautiful  hue. 

Her  heart  is  the  heart  of  a  dove, 
Ah,  would  it  but  fly  to  my  breast 

Where  love,  beautiful  love, 
Has  made  it  a  downy  nest. 

Ah,  would  she  but  fly  to  my  breast, 
My  hue  who  is  so  young,  so  young; 

I  haue  made  her  a  downy  nest 
And  life  is  a  song  to  be  sung. 


THREE   WOMEN. 

I. 

A  dull  little  station,  a  man  with  the  eye 

Of  a  dreamer;  a  bevy  of  girls  moving  by; 

A  swift  moving  train  and  a  hot  Summer  sun, 

The  curtain  goes  up,  and  our  play  is  begun. 

The  drama  of  passion,  of  sorrow,  of  strife, 

Which  always  is  billed  for  the  theatre  Life. 

It  runs  on  forever,  from  year  unto  year, 

With  scarcely  a  change  when  new  actors  appear. 

It  is  old  as  the  world  is — far  older  in  truth, 

For  the  world  is  a  crude  little  planet  of  youth. 

And  back  in  the  eras  before  it  was  formed, 

The  passions  of  hearts  through  the  Universe  stormed, 

Maurice  Somerville  passed  the  cluster  of  girls 
Who  twisted  their  ribbons  and  fluttered  their  curls 

9 


io  ftbree  IKHomen. 


In  vain  to  attract  him;  his  mind  it  was  plain 

Was  wholly  intent  on  the  incoming  train. 

That  great  one  eyed   monster  puffed   out  its     black 

breath, 
Shrieked,  snorted  and   hissed,  like  a  thing  bent  on 

death, 

Paused  scarcely  a  moment,  and  then  sped  away, 
And  two  actors  more  now  enliven  our  play. 

A  graceful  young  woman  with  eyes  like  the  morn, 
With  hair  like  the  tassels  which  hang  from  the  corn, 
And  a  face  that  might  serve  as  a  model  for  Peace, 
Moved  lightly  along,  smiled  and.  bowed  to  Maurice, 
Then  was  lost  in  the  circle  of  friends  waiting  near. 
A  discord  of  shrill  nasal  tones  smote  the  ear, 
As  they  greeted  their  comrade  and  bore  her  from  sight. 
(The  ear  oft  is  pained  while  the  eye  feels  delight 
In  the  presence  of  women  throughout  our  fair  land: 
God  gave  them  the  graces  which  win  and  command, 
But  the  devil,  who  always  in  mischief  rejoices, 
Slipped  into  their  teachers  and  ruined  their  voices.) 


TMiomen.  u 


There  had  stepped  from  the  train  just  behind  Mabel  Lee 
A  man  whose  deportment  bespoke  him  to  be 
A  child  of  good  fortune.     His  mien  and  his  air 
Were  those  of  one  all  unaccustomed  to  care. 
His  brow  was  not  vexed  with  the  gold  seeker's  worry, 
His  manner  was  free  from  the  national  hurry. 
Repose  marked  his  movements.     Yet  gaze  in  his  eye, 
And  you  saw  that  this  calm  outer  man  was  a  lie; 
And  you  knew  that  deep  down  in  the  depths  of  his 

breast 
There  dwelt  the  unmerciful  imp  of  unrest. 

He  held  out  his  hand;  it  was  clasped  with  a  will 

In  both  the  firm  palms  of  Maurice  Somerville. 

"Well,  Reese,  my  old  Comrade;"  -Ha,  Roger,  my  boy," 

They  cried  in  a  breath,  and  their  eyes  gemmed  with  joy 

(Which  but  for  their  sex  had  been  set  in  a  tear), 

As  they  walked  arm  in  arm  to  the  trap. waiting  near, 

And  drove  down    the   shining   shell   roadway  which 

wound 
Through  forest  and  meadow,  in  search  of  the  Sound. 


I2  Cbree  Women. 


Roger: 

I  smell  the  salt  water— that  perfume  which  starts 
The  blood  from  hot  brains  back   to   world    withered 

hearts; 

You  may  talk  of  the  fragrance  of  flower  filled  fields, 
You  may  sing  of  the  odors  the  Orient  yields, 
You  may  tell  of  the  health  laden  scent  of  the  pine, 
But  give  me  the  subtle  salt  breath  of  the  brine. 
Already  1  feel  lost  emotions  of  youth 
Steal  back  to  my  soul  in  their  sweetness  and  truth; 
Small   wonder   the    years    leave  no   marks   on   your 

face, 

Time's  scythe  gathers  rust  in  this  idyllic  place. 
You  must  feel  like  a  child  on  the  Great  Mother's  breast, 
With  the  Sound  like  a  nurse  watching  over  your  rest? 

Maurice: 

There  is  beauty  and  truth  in  your  quaint  simile, 
I  love  the  Sound  more  than  the  broad  open  sea. 
The  ocean  seems  always  stern,  masculine,  bold, 
The  Sound  is  a  woman,  now  warm,  and  now  cold. 


ftbree  "GQorncn 


It  rises  in  fury  and  threatens  to  smite, 
Then  falls  at  your  feet  with  a  coo  of  delight ; 
Capricious,  seductive,  first  frowning,  then  smiling, 
And  always,  whatever  its  mood  is,  beguiling. 
Look,  now  you  can  see  it,  bright  beautiful  blue, 
And  far  in  the  distance  there  loom  into  view 
The  banks  of  Long  Island,  full  thirty  miles  off; 
A  sign  of  wet  weather  to-morrow.     Don't  scoff ! 
We  people  who  chum  with  the  waves  and  the  wind 
Know  more  than  all  wise  signal  bureaus  combined. 

But  come,  let  us  talk  of  yourself— for  of  me 
There  is  little  to  tell  which  your  eyes  may  not  see. 
Since  we  finished  at  College  (eight  years,  is  it  not?) 
I  simply  have  dreamed  away  life  in  this  spot. 
With  my  dogs  and  my  horses,  a  book  and  a  pen, 
And  a  week  spent  in  town  as  a  change  now  and  then 
Fatigue  for  the  body,  disease  for  the  mind, 
Are  all  that  the  city  can  give  me,  I  find. 
Yet  once  in  a  while  there  is  wisdom  I  hold 
In  leaving  the  things  that  are  dearer  than  gold,— 


14  abtee  IKnomen. 


Loved  people  and  places — if  only  to  learn 

The  exquisite  rapture  it  is  to  return. 

But  you,  I  remember,  craved  motion  and  change ; 

You  hated  the  usual,  worshiped  the  strange. 

Adventure  and  travel  I  know  were  your  theme : 

Well,  how  did  the  real  compare  with  the  dream  ? 

You  have  compassed    the  earth   since  we   parted   at 

Yale, 
Has  life  grown  the  richer,  or  only  grown  stale  ? 

Roger: 

Stale,  stale,  my  dear  boy  !  that's  the  story  in  short, 
1  am  weary  of  travel,  adventure  and  sport ; 
At  home  and  abroad,  in  all  climates  and  lands, 
I  have  had  what  life  gives  when  a  full  purse  commands. 
I  have  chased  after  Pleasure,  that  phantom  faced  elf, 
And  lost  the  best  part  of  my  youth  and  myself. 
And  now,  barely  thirty,  I'm  heart  sick  and  blue ; 
Life  seems  like  a  farce  scarcely  worth  sitting  through. 
I  dread  its  long  stretch  of  dissatisfied  years  ; 
Ah  !  wealth  is  not  always  the  boon  it  appears. 


Gbrce  IQomcn. 


And  poverty  lights  not  such  ruinous  fires 
As  gratified  appetites,  tastes  and  desires. 
Fate  curses,  when  letting  us  do  as  we  please— 
It  stunts  a  man's  soul  to  be  cradled  in  ease, 

Maurice  : 

You  are  right  in  a  measure  ;  the  devil  1  hold 
Is  oftener  found  in  full  coffers  of  gold 
Than  in  bare,  empty  larders.     The  soul,  it  is  plain, 
Needs  the  conflicts  of  earth,  needs  the  stress  and  the  strain 
Of  misfortune,  to  bring  out  its  strength  in  this  life— 
The  Soul's  calisthenics  are  sorrow  and  strife. 
But,  Roger,  what  folly  to  stand  in  youth's  prime 
And  talk  like  a  man  who  could  father  old  Time. 
You  have  life  all  before  you  ;  the  past,— let  it  sleep  ; 
Its  lessons  alone  are  the  things  you  should  keep. 
There  is  virtue  sometimes  in  our  follies  and  sinnings ; 
Right  lives  very  often  have  faulty  beginnings. 
Results,  and  not  causes,  are  what  we  should  measure. 
You  have  learned  precious  truths  in  your  search  after 
pleasure. 


1 6  Gbree  Udorncn. 


You  have  learned  that  a  glow  worm  is  never  a  star, 
You  have  learned   that  Peace  builds  not  her  temples 

afar. 

And  now,  dispossessed  of  the  spirit  to  roam, 
You  are  finely  equipped  to  establish  a  home. 
That's  the  one  thing  you  need  to  lend  savor  to  life, 
A  home,  and  the  love  of  a  sweet  hearted  wife, 
And  children  to  gladden  the  path  to  old  age. 

Roger: 

Alas !  from  life's  book  I  have  torn  out  that  page  ; 
I  have  loved  many  times  and  in  many  a  fashion, 
Which  means  I  know  nothing  at  all  of  the  passion. 
I  have  scattered  my  heart,  here  and  there,  bit  by  bit, 
Til  now  there  is  nothing  worth  while  left  of  it ; 
And,  worse  than  all  else,  I  have  ceased  to  believe 
In  the  virtue  and  truth  of  the  daughters  of  Eve. 
There's  tragedy  for  you — when  man's  early  trust 
In  woman,  experience  hurls  to  the  dust ! 

Maurice : 
Then  you  doubt  your  own  mother  ? 


Cbr.cc  tQomen.  17 


Roger: 

She  passed  heavenward 
Before  I  remember;  a  saint,  I  have  heard, 
While  she  lived  ;  there  are  scores  of  good  women  to-day, 
Temptation  has  chanced  not  to  wander  their  way. 
The  devil  has  more  than  his  lordship  can  do, 
He  can't  make  the  rounds,  so  some  women  keep  true. 

Maurice: 
You  think  then  each  woman,  if  tempted,  must  fall? 

Roger: 

Yes,  if  tempted  her  way— not  one  way  suits  them  all— 
They  have  tastes  in  their  sins  as  they  have  in  their 

clothes, 

The  tempter,  of  course,  has  to  first  study  those. 
One  needs  to  be  flattered,  another  is  bought ; 
One  yields  to  caresses,  by  frowns  one  is  caught. 
One  wants  a  bold  master,  another  a  slave, 
With  one  you  must  jest,  with  another  be  grave. 
But  swear  you're  a  sinner  whom  she  has  reformed 
And  the  average  feminine  fortress  is  stormed. 


1 8  Gbree  Women. 


In  rescuing  men  from  abysses  of  sin 

She  loses  her  head — and  herself  tumbles  in. 

The  mind  of  a  woman  was  shaped  for  a  saint, 

But  deep  in  her  heart  lies  the  devil's  own  taint. 

With  plans  for  salvation  her  busy  brain  teems, 

While  her   heart   longs  in  secret  to  know   how   sin 

seems. 

And  if  with  this  question  unanswered  she  dies, 
Temptation  came  not  in  the  right  sort  of  guise. 
There's  my  estimate,  Reese,  of  the  beautiful  sex; 
I  see  by  your  face  that  my  words  wound  and  vex, 
But  remember,  my  boy,  I'm  a  man  of  the  world. 

Maurice  : 

Thank  God,  in  the  vortex  I  have  not  been  hurled. 
If  experience  breeds  such  a  mental  disease, 
I  am  glad  I  have  lived  with  the  birds  and  the  bees, 
And  the  winds  and  the  waves,  and  let  people  alone. 
So  far  in  my  life  but  good  women  I've  known. 
My  mother,  my  sister,  a  few  valued  friends — 
A  teacher,  a  schoolmate,  and  there  the  list  ends. 


Cbrcc  Idomeii. 


But  to  know  one  true  woman  in  sunshine  and  gloom, 

From  the  zenith  of  life  to  the  door  of  the  tomb, 

To  know  her,  as  1  knew  that  mother  of  mine, 

Is  to  know  the  whole  sex  and  to  kneel  at  the  shrine. 

Roger: 
Then  you  think  saint  and  woman  synonymous  terms? 

Maurice  : 

Oh,  no!  we  are  all,  men  and  women,  poor  worms 
Crawling  up  from  the  dampness  and  darkness  of  clay 
To  bask  in  the  sunlight  and  warmth  of  the  day. 
Some  climb  to  a  leaf  and  reflect  its  bright  sheen, 
Some  toil  through  the  grass,  and  are  crushed  there 

unseen. 

Some  sting  if  you  touch  them,  and  some  evolve  wings; 
Yet  God  dwells  in  each  of  the  poor,  groping  things. 
They  came  from  the  Source — to  the  Source  they  go 

back; 

The  sinners  are  those  who  have  missed  the  true  track. 
We  can  not  judge  women  or  men  as  a  class, 
Each  soul  has  its  own  distinct  place  in  the  mass. 


20  ZTbree  TKHomen. 


There  is  no  sex  in  sin;  it  were  folly  to  swear 

All  women  are  angels,  but  worse  to  declare 

All  are  devils  as  you  do.    You're  morbid,  my  boy, 

In  what  you  thought  gold  you  have  found  much  alloy. 

And  now  you  are  doubting  there  is  the  true  ore. 

But  wait  till  you  study  my  sweet  simple  store 

Of  pure  sterling  treasures;  just  wait  till  you've  been 

A  few  restful  weeks,  or  a  season,  within 

The  charmed  circle  of  home  life;  then,  Roger,  you'll 

find 

These  malarial  mists  clearing  out  of  your  mind. 
As  a  ship  cuts  the  fog  and  is  caught  by  the  breeze, 
And  swept  through  the  sunlight  to  fair,  open  seas, 
So  your  heart  will  be  caught  and  swept  out  to  the 

ocean 

Of  youth  and  youth's  birthright  of  happy  emotion. 
I'll  wager  my  hat  (it  was  new  yesterday) 
That  you'll  fall  in  love,  too,  in  a  serious  way. 
Our  girls  at  Bay  Bend  are  bewitching  and  fair, 
And  Cupid  lurks  ever  in  salt  Summer  air. 


Gbree  llClomcn.  21 


Roger: 

\  question  your  gifts  as  a  prophet,  and  yet, 
I  confess  in  my  travels  I  never  have  met 
A  woman  whose  face  so  impressed  me  at  sight, 
As  one  seen  to-day;  a  mere  girl,  sweet  and  bright, 
Who  entered  the  train  quite  alone  and  sat  down 
Surrounded  by  parcels  she'd  purchased  in  town. 
A  trim  country  lass,  but  endowed  with  the  beauty 
Which  makes  a  man  think  of  his  conscience  and  duty. 
Some  women,  you  know,  move   us  that   way — God 

bless  them, 

While  others  rouse  only  a  thirst  to  possess  them 
The  face  of  the  girl  made  me  wish  to  be  good, 
1  went  out  and  smoked  to  escape  from  the  mood. 
When  conscience  through  half  a  man's  life  has  been 

sleeping 
What  folly  to  wake  it  to  worry  and  weeping! 

Maurice : 

The  pessimist  role  is  a  modern  day  fad, 
But,  Roger,  you  make  a  poor  cynic,  my  lad. 


22  Gbree  TKHomen. 


Your  heart  at  the  core  is  as  sound  as  a  nut, 

Though  the  wheels  of  your  mind  have  dropped  into 

the  rut 
Of  wrong  thinking.     You  need  a  strong  hand  on  the 

lever 

Of  good  common  sense,  and  an  earnest  endeavor 
To  pull  yourself  out  of  the  slough  of  despond 
Back  into  the  highway  of  peace  just  beyond. 
And  now,  here  we  are  at  Peace  Castle  in  truth, 
And  there  stands  its  Chatelaine,  sweet  Sister  Ruth, 
To  welcome  you,  Roger ;  you'll  find  a  new  type 
In    this    old-fashioned    girl,    who   in   years    scarcely 

ripe, 

And  as  childish  in  heart  as  she  is  in  her  looks, 
And  without  worldly  learning  or  knowledge  of  books, 
Yet  in  housewifely  wisdom  is  wise  as  a  sage. 
She  is  quite  out  of  step  with  the  girls  of  her  age, 
For  she  has  no  ambition  beyond  the  home  sphere. 
Ruth,  here's  Roger  Montrose,  my  comrade  of  dear 

College  days. 


Cbrce  "CUomcn.  23 


The  gray  eyes  of  the  girl  of  nineteen 
Looked  into  the  face  oft  in  fancy  she'd  seen 
When  her  brother  had  talked  of  his  comrade  at  Yale. 
His  stature  was  lower,  his  cheek  was  more  pale 
Than  her  thought  had  portrayed  him  ;  a  look  in  his  eye 
Made  her  sorry,  she  knew  not  for  what  nor  knew  why, 
But  she  longed  to  befriend  him,  as  one  needing  aid  • 
While  fie,  gazing  down  on  the  face  of  the  maid, 
Spoke  some  light   words   of  greeting,  the    while  his 

mind  ran 

On  her  "points"  good  and  bad  ;  for  the  average  man 
When  he  looks  at  a  woman  proceeds  first  to  scan  her 
As  if  she  were  horse  flesh,  and  in  the  same  manner 
Notes  all  that  is  pleasing,  or  otherwise.     So 
Roger  gazed  at  Ruth  Somerville. 

"Mouth  like  a  bow 

And  eyes  full  of  motherhood  ;  color  too  warm, 
And  too  round  in  the  cheek  and  too  full  in  the  form 
For  the  highest  ideal  of  beauty  and  art. 
Domestic — that  word  is  the  cue  to  her  part 


24  Gbree  TKflomen. 


She  would  warm  a  man's  slippers,  but  never  his  veins  ; 
She  would  feed  well  his  stomach,  but  never  his  brains. 
And  after  she  looks  on  her  first  baby's  face, 
Her  husband  will  hold  but  a  second-class  place 
In  her  thoughts  or  emotions,  unless  he  falls  ill, 
When  a  dozen  trained  nurses  her  place  can  not  fill. 
She  is  sweet  of  her  kind  ;  and  her  kind  since  the  birth 
Of  this  sin  ridden,  Circe-cursed  planet,  the  Earth, 
Has  kept  it,  I  own,  with  its  medleys  of  evil 
From  going  straight  into  the  hands  of  the  devil. 
It  is  not  through  its  heroes  the  world  lives  and  thrives, 
But  through  its  sweet  commonplace  mothers  and  wives. 
We  love  them,  and  leave  them;  deceive,  and  respect 

them, 

We  laud  loud  their  virtues  and  straightway  neglect  them. 
They  are  daisy  and  buttercup  women  of  earth 
Who  grace  common  ways  with  their  sweetness  and 

worth. 

We  praise,  but  we  pass  them,  to  reach  for  some  flower 
That  stings  when  we  pluck  it,  or  wilts  in  an  hour. 


Gbrcc  tUcmcn.  25 


"You   are   thornless,  fair  J^uth!   you  are  useful  and 

sweet! 

But  lovers  shall  pass  you  to  sigh  at  the  feet 
Of  the  selfish  and  idle,  for  such  is  man's  way; 
Your  lot  is  to  work,  and  to  weep,  and  to  pray. 
To  give  much  and  get  little;  to  toil  and  to  wait 
For  the  meager  rewards  of  indifferent  fate. 
Yet  so  wholesome  your  heart,  you  will  never  complain; 
You  will  feast  on  life's  sorrow  and  drink  of  its  pain, 
And    thank   God   for   the   banquet;   'tis  women    like 

you 

Who  make  the  romancing  of  preachers  seem  true. 
The  earth  is  your  debtor  to  such  large  amounts 
There  must  be  a  heaven  to  square  up  accounts, 
Or  else  the  whole  scheme  of  existence  at  best 
Is  a  demon's  poor  effort  at  making  a  jest." 

That  night  as  Ruth  brushed  out  her  bright  hazel  hair 
Her  thoughts  were  of  Roger,  "  His  bold  laughing  air 
Is  a  cloak  to  some  sorrow  concealed  in  his  breast, 
His  mind  is  the  home  of  some  secret  unrest." 


26  Gbree  tQomcn. 


She  sighed;  and  there  woke  in  her  bosom  once  more 

The  impulse  to  comfort  and  help  him;  to  pour 

Soothing  oil  from  the  urn  of  her  heart  on  his  wounds. 

Where  motherhood  nature  in  woman  abounds 

It  is  thus  Cupid  comes;  unannounced  and  unbidden, 

In  sweet  pity's  guise,  with  his  arrows  well  hidden. 

But  once  given  welcome  and  housed  as  a  guest, 

He  hurls  the  whole  quiver  full  into  her  breast, 

While  he  pulls  off  his  mask  and  laughs  up  in  her  eyes 

With  an  impish  delight  at  her  start  of  surprise. 

So  intent  is  this  archer  on  bagging  his  game 

He  scruples  at  nothing  which  gives  him  good  aim. 

Ruth's,  heart  was  a  virgin's,  in  love  menaced  danger 
While  she  sat  by  her  mirror  and  pitied  the  stranger. 
But  just  as  she  blew  out  her  candle  and  stood 
Robed  for  sleep  in  the  moonlight,  a  change  in  her  mood 
Quickly  banished  the  dreamer,  and  brought  in  its  stead 
The  practical  housekeeper.     Sentiment  fled; 
And  she  puzzled  her  brain  to  decide  which  were  best, 
Corn  muffins  or  hot  graham  gems,  for  the  guest! 


Cbrce  tUomcn. 


II. 

The  short-sighted  minister  preached  at  Bay  Bend 
His  long-winded  sermon  quite  through  to  the  end, 
Unmindful  there  sat  in  the  Somerville  pew 
A  stranger  whose  pale  handsome  countenance  drew 
All  eyes  from  his  own  reverend  self;  nor  suspected 
What  Ruth  and  her  brother  too  plainly  detected 
That  the  stranger  was  bored. 

"Though  his  gaze  never  stirred 

From  the  face  of  the  preacher,  his  heart  has  not  heard,' 
Ruth  said  to  herself;  and  her  soft  mother-eye 
Was  fixed  on  his  face  with  a  look  like  a  sigh 
In  its  tremulous  depths,  as  they  rose  to  depart. 
Then  suddenly  Roger,  alert,  seemed  to  start 
And  his  dull,  listless  glance  changed  to  one  of  surprise 
And  of  pleasure.     Ruth  saw  that  the  goal  of  his  eyes 
Was  her  friend  Mabel  Lee  in  the  vestibule;  fair 
As  a  saint  that  is  pictured  with  sun  tangled  hair 
And  orbs  like  the  skies  in  October.     She  smiled, 
And  the  saint  disappeared  in  the  innocent  child 


28  Gbree  laaomcn. 


With  an  unconscious  dower  of  beauty  and  youth 
She  paused  in  the  vestibule  waiting  for  Ruth 
And  seemed  not  to  notice  the  warm  eager  gaze 
Of  two  men  fixed  upon  her  in  different  ways. 
One,  the  look  which  souls  lift  to  a  being  above, 
The  other  a  look  of  unreasoning  love 
Born  of  fancy  and  destined  to  grow  in  an  hour 
To  a  full  fledged  emotion  of  mastering  power. 

She  spoke,  and  her  voice  disappointed  the  ear ; 

It  lacked  some  deep  chords  that  the  heart  hoped  to 

hear. 

It  was  sweet,  but  not  vibrant ;  it  came  from  the  throat, 
And  one  listened  in  vain  for  a  full  chested  note. 
While  something  at  times  like  a  petulant  sound 
Seemed  in  strange  disaccord  with  the  peace  so  profound 
Of  the  eyes  and  the  brow. 

Though  our  sight  is  deceived 
The  ear  is  an  organ  that  may  be  believed. 
The  faces  of  people  are  trained  to  conceal, 
But  their  unruly  voices  are  prone  to  reveal 


Sbrcc  Tiaomcn. 


What  lies  deep  in  their  natures ;  a  voice  rarely  lies, 
But  Mabel  Lee's  voice  told  one  tale,  while  her  eyes 
Told  another.     Large,  liquid,  and  peaceful  as  lakes 
Where   the   azure   dawn    rests,   ere   the    loud    world 

awakes, 

Were  the  beautiful  eyes  of  the  maiden.     "A  saint, 
Without  mortal  blemish  or  weak  human  taint," 
Said  Maurice  to  himself.     To  himself  Roger  said  : 
"The  touch  of  her  soft  little  hands  on  my  head 
Would  convert  me.     What  peace  for  a  world  weary 

breast 
To  just  sit  by  her  side  and  be  soothed  into  rest." 

Daring  thoughts  for  a   stranger.     Maurice,  who  had 

known 

Mabel  Lee  as  a  child,  to  himself  would  not  own 
Such  bold  longings  as  those  were.     He  held  her  to  be 
Too  sacred  for  even  a  thought  that  made  free. 
And  the  voice  in  his  bosom  was  silenced  and  hushed 
Lest  the  bloom  from  her  soul  by  his  words  should  be 

brushed. 


30  Gbree  TKIiomen. 


There  are  men  to  whom  love  is  religion  ;  but  woman 
Is  far  better  pleased  with  a  homage  more  human. 
Though  she  may  not  be  able  to  love  in  like  fashion, 
She  wants  to  be  wooed  with  both  ardor  and  passion. 
Had  Mabel  Lee  read  Roger's  thoughts  of  her,  bold 
Though  they  were,  they  had  flattered  and  pleased  her, 
I  hold. 

The  stranger  was  duly  presented. 

Roger: 

Miss  Lee, 

I  am  sure,  has  no  least  recollection  of  me, 

But  the  pleasure  is  mine  to  have  looked  on  her  face 

Once  before  this. 

Mabel: 

Indeed  ?     May  I  ask  where  ? 

Roger: 
The  place 
Was  the  train,  and  the  time  yesterday. 

Mabel: 

"Then  I  came 
From  my  shopping  excursion  in  town  by  the  same 


Ebrec  TlClomcn. 


Fast  express   which    brought    you  ?     Had     I    known 

that  the  friend 

Of  my  friends,  was  so  near  me  en  route  for  Bay  Bend, 
1  had  waived  all  conventions  and  asked  him  to  take 
One-half  of  my  parcels  for  sweet  pity's  sake. 

Roger: 

You  sadden  me  sorely.     As  long  as  I  live 
I  shall  mourn  the  great  pleasure  chance  chose  notto  give. 

Maurice : 

Take  courage,  mon  ami.     Our  fair  friend,  Miss  Lee, 
Fills  her  time  quite  as  full  of  sweet  works  as  the  hee; 
Like  the  bee,  too,  she  drives  out  the  drones  from  her 

hive. 
You  must  toil  in  her  cause,  in  her  favor  to  thrive. 

Roger: 

She  need  but  command  me.     To  wait  upon  beauty 
And  goodness  combined  makes  a  pleasure  of  duty. 

Maurice: 

Who  serves  Mabel  Lee  serves  all  Righteousness  too. 
Pray,  then,  that  she  gives  you  some  labor  to  do. 


32  Gbree  Women. 


The  cure  for  the  pessimist  lies  in  good  deeds. 
Who  toils  for  another  forgets  his  own  needs, 
And  mischief  and  misery  never  attend 
On  the  man  who  is  occupied  fully. 

Ruth: 

Our  friend 

Has  the  town  on  her  shoulders.     Whatever  may  be 
The  cause  that  is  needy,  we  look  to  Miss  Lee. 
Have  you  gold  ?     She  will  make  you  disgorge  it  ere  long ; 
Are  you  poor?     Well,  perchance  you  can  dance — sing 

a  song — 

Make  a  speech — tell  a  story,  or  plan  a  charade. 
Whatever  you  have,  gold  or  wits,  sir,  must  aid 
In  her  numerous  charities. 

Mabel: 

Riches  and  brain 
Are  but  loans  from  the  Master.     He  meant  them,  'tis 

plain, 

To  be  used  in  His  service ;  and  people  are  kind, 
When  once  you  can  set  them  to  thinking.     I  find 


Cbrce  Ulomcn.  33 


It  is  lack  of  perception,  not  lack  of  good  heart 

Which    makes    the    world    selfish    in   seeming.     My 

part 

Is  to  call  the  attention  of  Plenty  to  need, 
And  to  bid  Pleasure  pause  for  a  moment  and  heed 
The  woes  and  the  burdens  of  Labor. 

Roger: 
One  plea 

From  the  rosy  and  eloquent  lips  of  Miss  Lee 
Would  make  Avarice  pour  out  his  coffers  of  gold 
At  her  feet,  I  should  fancy ;  would  soften  the  cold, 
Selfish  heart  of  the  world  to  compassionate  sighs, 
And  bring  tears  of  pity  to  vain  Pleasure's  eyes. 

As  the  sunset  a  color  on  lily  leaves  throws, 
The  words  and  the  glances  of  Roger  Montrose 
O'er  the  listener's  cheeks  sent  a  pink  tinted  wave ; 
While  Maurice  seemed  disturbed,  and  his  sister  grew 

grave. 

The  false  chink  of  flattery's  coin  smites  the  ear 
With  an  unpleasant  ring  when  the  heart  is  sincere. 


34  tTbree  TKflomen. 


Yet  the  man  whose  mind  pockets  are  filled  with  this  ore, 
Though  empty  his  brain  cells,  is  never  a  bore 
To  the  opposite  sex. 

While  Maurice  knew  of  old 

Roger's  wealth  in  that  coin  that  does  duty  for  gold 
In  Society  dealings,  it  hurt  him  to  see 
The  cheap  metal  offered  to  sweet  Mabel  Lee. 

(Yet,  perchance,  the  hurt  came,  not  so  much  that  'twas 

offered, 

As  in  seeing  her  take,  with  a  smile,  what  was  prof 
fered.) 
They  had  walked,  two  by  two,  down  the  elm  shaded 

street, 

Which  led  to  a  cottage,  vine  hidden,  and  sweet 
With  the  breath  of  the  roses  that  covered  it,  where 
Mabel  paused  in  the  gateway;  a  picture  most  fair. 
"I  would  ask  you  to  enter,"  she  said,  "ere  you  pass, 
But  in  just  twenty  minutes  my  Sunday-school  class 
Claims  my  time  and  attention;  and  later  I  meet 
A  Committee  on  Plans  for  the  boys  of  the  street. 


(Tbrcc  TKHomen.  35 


We  seek  to  devise  for  these  pupils  in  crime 
Right  methods  of  thought  and  wise  uses  of  time. 

Roger: 

\  am  but  a  vagrant,  untutored  and  wild, 
May  1  join  your  street  class,  and  be  taught  like  a  child? 

Mabel: 
If  you  come  I  will  carefully  study  your  case. 

Maurice: 
I  must  go  along,  too,  just  to  keep  him  in  place. 

Mabel: 
Then  you  think  him  unruly? 

Maurice: 
Decidedly  so. 

Roger: 
1  was,  but  am  changed  since  one-half  hour  ago. 

Mabel: 

The  change  is  too  sudden  to  be  of  much  worth; 
The  deepest  convictions  are  slowest  of  birth. 
Conversion,  I  hold,  to  be  earnest  and  lasting, 
Begins  with  repentance  and  praying  and  fasting, 


36  Gbree 


And  (begging  your  pardon  for  such  a  bold  speech), 
You  seem,  sir,  a  stranger  to  all  and  to  each 
Of  these  ways  of  salvation. 

Roger: 

Since  yesterday,  miss, 

When,  unseen,  I  first  saw  you  (believe  me  in  this), 
I  have  deeply  repented  my  sins  of  the  past. 
To-night  I  will  pray,  and  to-morrow  will  fast — 
Or,  make  it  next  week,  when  my  shore  appetite 
May  be  somewhat  subdued  in  its  ravenous  might. 

Maurice : 

That's  the  way  of  the  orthodox  sinner !     He  waits 
Until  time  or  indulgence  or  misery  sates 
All  his  appetites,  then  his  repentance  begins, 
When  his  sins  cease  to  please,  then  he  gives  up  his 

sins 

And  grows  pious.     Now  prove  you  are  morally  brave 
By  actually  giving  up  something  you  crave ! 
We  have  fricasseed  chicken  and  strawberry  cake 
For  our  dinner  to-day. 


Cbrcc  TlCIomen. 


Roger: 

For  dear  principle's  sake 
I  could  easily  do  what  you  ask,  were  it  not 
Most  unkind  to  Miss  Ruth,  who  gave  labor  and  thought 
To  that  menu,  preparing  it  quite  to  my  taste. 

Ruth: 

But  the  thought  and  the  dinner  will  both  go  to  waste, 
If  we  linger  here  longer ;  and  Mabel,  I  see, 
Is  impatient  to  go  to  her  duties. 

Roger: 
The  bee 

Is  reluctant  to  turn  from  the  lily  although 
The  lily  may  obviously  wish  he  would  go 
And  leave  her  to  muse  in  the  sunlight  alone. 
Yet  when  the  rose  calls  him,  his  sorrow,  I  own, 
Has  its  recompense.     So  from  delight  to  delight 
I  fly  with  my  wings  honeyladen. 

Good  night. 


Oh,  love  is  like  the  dawnlight 
That  turns  the  dark  to  day. 

And  love  is  like  the  deep  night 
With  secrets  hid  away. 

And  love  is  like  the  moonlight 
Where  tropic  Summers  glow, 

And  love  is  like  the  twilight 
When  dreams  begin  to  grow. 

Oh,  love  is  like  the  sunlight 
That  sets  the  world  ablaze, 

And  love  is  like  the  moonlight 
With  soft  illusive  rays. 

And  love  is  like  the  starlight 
That  glimmers  o'er  the  skies, 

And  love  is  like  the  far  light 

That  shines  from  God's  great  eyes. 


Cbrcc  •Gdomen.  41 


Maurice  Somerville  from  his  turreted  den 
Looked  out  of  the  window  and  laid  down  his  pen. 
A  soft  salty  wind  from  the  water  was  blowing, 
Below  in  the  garden  sat  Ruth  with  her  sewing. 
And  stretched  on  the  grass  at  her  feet  Roger  lay 
With  a  book  in  his  hand. 

Through  the  ripe  August  day, 
Piped  the  Katydids'  voices,  Jack  Frost's  tally-ho 
Commanding  Queen  Summer  to  pack  up  and  go. 
Maurice  leaned  his  head  on  the  casement  and  sighed, 
Strong  and  full  in  his  heart  surged  love's  turbulent  tide. 
And  thoughts  of  the  woman  he  worshiped  with  longing 
Took  shape  and  like  angels  about  him  came  thronging. 
The  world  was  all  Mabel!  her  exquisite  face 
Seemed  etched  on  the  sunlight  and  gave  it  its  grace; 
Her  eyes  made  the  blue  of  the  heavens,  the  sun 
Was  her  wonderful  hair  caught  and  coiled  into  one 
Shining  mass.     With  a  reverent,  worshipful  awe, 
It  was  Mabel,  fair  Mabel,  dear  Mabel  he  saw, 


42  TTbrce  TKHomem 


When  he  looked  up  to  God. 

They  had  been  much  together 

Through  all  the  bright  stretches  of  midsummer  weather, 
Ruth,  Roger,  and  Mabel  and  he.     Scarce  a  day 
But  the  four  were  united  in  work  or  in  play. 
And  much  of  the  play  to  a  man  or  a  maid 
Not  in  love  had  seemed  labor.     Recital,  charade, 
Garden  party,  church  festival,  musical,  hop, 
Were  all  planned  by  Miss  Lee  without  respite  or  stop. 
The  poor  were  the  richer;  school,  hospital,  church, 
The  heathen,  the  laborer  left  in  the  lurch 
By  misfortune,  the  orphan,  the  indigent  old, 
Our  kind  Lady  Bountiful  aided  with  gold 
Which  she  filched  from  the  pockets  of  pleasure — God's 

spoil, 
And  God's  blessing  will  follow  such  lives  when  they 

toil 
Through  an  infinite  sympathy. 

Fair  Mabel  Lee 
Loved  to  rule  and  to  lead.     She  was  eager  to  be 


Cbrce  "CQornen.  43 


In  the  eyes  of  the  public.     That  modern  day  craze 
Possessed  her  in  secret,  and  this  was  its  phase. 
An  innocent,  even  commendable,  fad 
Which  filled  empty  larders  and  cheered  up  the  sad. 
She  loved  to  do  good.     But,  alas  !  in  her  heart, 
She  loved  better  still  the  authoritative  part 
Which  she  played  in  her  town. 

'Neath  the  saint's  aureole 

Lurked  the  feminine  tyrant  who  longed  to  control, 
And  who  never  would  serve ;  but  her  sway  was  so 

sweet, 
That  her  world  was  contented  to  bow  at  her  feet. 

Who  toils  in  the  great  public  vineyard  must  needs 
Let  other  hands  keep  his  own  garden  from  weeds. 
So  busy  was  Mabel  with  charity  fairs 
She  gave  little  thought  to  her  home  or  its  cares. 
Mrs.  Lee,  like  the  typical  modern  day  mother, 
Was  maid  to  her  daughter ;  the  father  and  brother 
Were  slaves  at  her  bidding ;  an  excellent  plan 
To  make  a  tyrannical  wife  for  some  man. 


44  Gbree  "Qdomem 


Yet  where  was  the  man  who,  beholding  the  grace 

Of  that  slight  girlish  creature,  and  watching  her  face 

With  its  infantile  beauty  and  sweetness,  would  dare 

Think  aught  but  the  rarest  of  virtues  dwelt  there? 

Rare  virtues  she  had,  but  in  commonplace  ones 

Which  make  happy  husbands  and  home  loving  sons 

She  was  utterly  lacking.     Ruth  Somerville  saw 

In  sorrow  and  silence  this  blemishing  flaw 

In  the  friend  whom  she  loved  with  devotion!  Maurice 

Saw  only  the  angel  with  eyes  full  of  peace. 

The  faults  of  plain  women  are  easily  seen. 

But  who  cares  to  peer  back  of  beauty's  fair  screen 

For  things  which  are  ugly  to  look  on? 

The  lover 

Is  not  quite  in  love  when  his  sharp  eyes  discover 
The  flaws  in  his  jewel. 

Maurice  from  his  room 

Looked  dreamily  down  on  the  garden  of  bloom, 
Where  Ruth  sat  with  Roger;  he  smiled  as  he  thought 
How  quickly  the  world  sated  cynic  was  brought 


Gbree  TiUomen.  45 


Into  harness  by  Cupid.     The  man  mad  with  drink, 
And  the  man  mad  with  love,  is  quite  certain  to  think 
All  other  men  drunkards  or  lovers.     In  truth 
Maurice  had  expected  his  friend  to  love  Ruth. 
"She  was  young,she  was  fair;  with  her  bright  sunny  art 
She  could  scatter  the  mists  from  his  world  befogged 

heart. 

She  could  give  him  the  one  heaven  under  God's  dome, 
A  peaceful,  well  ordered,  and  love-guarded  home. 
And  he?  why  of  course  he  would  worship  her!     When 
Cupid  finds  the  soft  spot  in  the  hearts  of  such  men 
They  are  ideal  husbands."     Maurice  Somerville 
Felt  the  whole  world  was  shaping  itself  to  his  will. 
And  his  heart  stirred  with  joy  as,  by  thought  necro 
mancy, 

He  made  the  near  future  unfold  to  his  fancy, 
And  saw  Ruth  the  bride  of  his  friend,  and  the  place 
She  left  vacant  supplied  with  the  beauty  and  grace 
Of  this  woman  he  longed  for,  the  love  of  his  life, 
Fair  Mabel,  his  angel,  his  sweet  spirit  wife. 


46  dbree  Women. 


Maurice  to  his  desk  turned  again  and  once  more 
Began  to  unburden  his  bosom  and  pour 
His  heart  out  on  paper — the  poet's  relief, 
When    drunk    with    life's    rapture    or    sick    with    its 
grief. 

Song. 

When  shall  I  tell  my  lady  that  I  love  her  ? 

Will  it  be  while  the  sunshine  woos  the  world, 
Or  when  the  mystic  twilight  bends  above  her, 

Or  when  the  day's  bright  banners  all  are  furled  ? 
Will  wild  winds  shriek,  or  will  the  calm  stars  glow, 
When  I  shall  tell  her  that  I  love  her  so, 

1  love  her  so? 

I  think  the  sun  should  shine  in  all  his  glory; 

Again,  the  twilight  seems  the  fitting  time. 
Yet  sweet  dark  night  would  understand  the  story, 

So  old,  so  new,  so  tender,  so  sublime. 
Wild  storms  should  rage  to  chord  with  my  desire, 
Yet  faithful  stars  should  shine  and  never  tire, 

And  never  tire. 


Cbrcc  tUomcn.  47 


Ah,  if  my  lady  will  consent  to  listen, 
All  hours,  all  times,  shall  hear  my  story  told. 

In  amorous  dawns,  on  nights  when  pale  stars  glisten 
In  dim  hushed  gloamings  and  in  noon  hours  bold, 

While  thunders  crash,  and  while  the  winds  breathe  low, 

Will  I  re-tell  her  that  I  love  her  so. 

1  love  her  so. 


Gbree  'Cdomen.  49 


IV. 

The  October  day  had  been  luscious  and  fair 

Like  a  woman  of  thirty.     A  chill  in  the  air 

As  the  sun  faced  the  west  spoke  of  frost  lurking  near. 

All  day  the  Sound  lay  without  motfbn,  and  clear 

As  a  mirror,  and  blue  as  a  blond  baby's  eyes. 

A  change  in  the  tide  brought  a  change  to  the  skies. 

The  bay  stirred  and  murmured  and  parted  its  lips 

And  breathed  a  long  sigh  for  the  lost  lovely  ships, 

That  had  gone  with  the  Summer. 

Its  calm  placid  breast 

Was  stirred  into  passionate  pain  and  unrest. 
Not  a  sail,  not  a  sail  anywhere  to  be  seen! 
The  soft  azure  eyes  of  the  sea  turned  to  green. 
A  sudden  wind  rose;  like  a  runaway  horse 
Unchecked  and  unguided  it  sped  on  its  course. 
The  waves  bared  their  teeth,  and  spat  spray  in  the  face 
Of  the  furious  gale  as  they  fled  in  the  chase. 
The  sun  hurried  into  a  cloud;  and  the  trees 
Bowed  low  and  yet  lower,  as  if  to  appease 


Gbree 


The  wrath  of  the  storm  king  that  threatened  them. 

Close 

To  the  waves  at  their  wildest  stood  Roger  Montrose. 
The  day  had  oppressed  him;  and  now  the  unrest 
Of  the  wind  beaten  sea  brought  relief  to  his  breast, 
Or   at   least   brought   the    sense    of    companionship. 

Lashed 

By  his  higher  emotions,  the  man's  passions  dashed 
On  the  shore  of  his  mind  in  a  frenzy  of  pain, 
Like  the  waves  on  the  rocks,  and  a  frenzy  as  vain. 

Since  the  day  he  first  looked  on  her  face,  Mabel  Lee 

Had  seemed  to  his  self  sated  nature  to  be, 

On  life's  troubled  ocean,  a  beacon  of  light, 

To  guide  him  safe  out  from  the  rocks  and  the  night. 

Her  calm  soothed  his  passion;  her  peace  gave  him  poise; 

She  seemed  like  a  silence  in  life's  vulgar  noise. 

He  bathed  in  the  light  which  her  purity  cast, 

And  felt  half  absolved  from  the  sins  of  the  past. 

He  longed  in  her  mantle  of  goodness  to  hide 

And  forget  the  whole  world.     By  the  incoming  tide 


Cbree  TSQomcn. 


He  talked  with  his  heart  as  one  talks  with  a  friend 
Who  is  dying.  "The  summer  has  come  to  an  end 
And  I  wake  from  my  dreaming,"  he  mused.  "Wake 

to  know 

That  my  place  is  not  here— 1  must  go — I  must  go. 
Who  dares  laugh  at  Love  shall  hear  Love  laughing 

last, 

As  forth  from  his  bowstring  barbed  arrows  are  cast. 
I  scoffed  at  the  god  with  a  sneer  on  my  lip, 
And  he  forces  me  now  from  his  chalice  to  sip 
A  bitter  sweet  potion.     Ah,  lightly  the  part 
Of  a  lover  I've  played  many  times,  but  my  heart 
Has  been  proud  in  its  record  of  friendship.     And  now 
The  mad,  eager  lover  born  in  me  must  bow 
To  the  strong  claims  of  friendship.     1  love  Mabel  Lee; 
Dared  1  woo  as  1  would,  1  could  make  her  love  me. 
The  soul  of  a  maid  who  knows  not  passion's  fire 
Is  moth  to  the  flame  of  a  man's  strong  desire. 
With  one  kiss  on  her  lips  I  could  banish  the  nun 
And  wake  in  her  virginal  bosom  the  one 


52  ftbree  Momen. 


Mighty  love  of  her  life.     If  I  leave  her,  I  know 

She  will  be  my  friend's  wife  in  a  season  or  so. 

He  loves  her,  he  always  has  loved  her;  'tis  he 

Who  ever  will  do  all  the  loving;  and  she 

Will  accept  it,  and  still  be  the  saint  to  the  end, 

And  she  never  will  know  what  she  missed;  but  my 

friend 

Has  the  right  to  speak  first.     God!  how  can  he  delay? 
I  marvel  at  men  who  are  fashioned  that  way. 
He  has  worshiped  her  since  first  she  put  up  her  tresses, 
And  let  down  the  hem  of  her  school-girlish  dresses 
And  now  she  is  full  twenty-two;  were  I  he 
A  brood  of  her  children  should  climb  on  my  knee 
By  this  time!  What  a  sin  against  love  to  postpone 
The  day  that  might  make  her  forever  his  own. 
The  man  who  can  wait  has  no  blood  in  his  veins. 
Maurice  is  a  dreamer,  he  loves  with  his  brains 
Not  with  soul  and'  with  senses.     And  yet  his  whole 

life 
Will  be  blank  if  he  makes  not  this  woman  his  wife. 


Cbree  tUomcn.  53 


She  is  woof  of  his  dreams,  she  is  warp  of  his  mind; 
Who  tears  her  away  shall  leave  nothing  behind. 
No,  no,  1  am  going:  farewell  to  Bay  Bend 
I  am  no  woman's  lover— 1  am  one  man's  friend. 
Still-born  in  the  arms  of  the  matron  eyed  year 
Lies  the  beautiful  dream  that  my  life  buries  here. 
Its  tomb  was  its  cradle;  it  came  but  to  taunt  me, 
It  died,  but  its  phantom  shall  ever  more  haunt  me." 

He  turned  from  the  waves  that  leaped  at  him  in  wrath 

To  find  Mabel  Lee,  like  a  wraith,  in  his  path. 

The  rose  from  her  cheek  had  departed  in  fear; 

The  tip  of  her  eyelash  was  gemmed  with  a  tear. 

The  rude  winds  had  disarranged  mantle  and  dress, 

And  she  clung  with  both  hands  to  her  hat  in  distress. 

"I  am  frightened,"  she  cried,  in  a  tremulous  tone; 

"  I  dare  not  proceed  any  farther  alone. 

As  I  came  by  the  church  yard  the  wind  felled  a  tree, 

And  invisible  hands  seemed  to  hurl  it  at  me; 

I  hurried  on,  shrieking;  the  wind,  in  disgust, 

Tore  the  hat  from  my  head,  filled  my  eyes  full  of  dust, 


54  ttbree  Women. 


And  otherwise  made  me  the  butt  of  its  sport. 
Just  then  I  spied  you,  like  a  light  in  the  port, 
And  I  steered  for  you.  Please  do  not  laugh  at  my 

fright ! 

I  am  really  quite  bold  in  the  calm  and  the  light, 
But  when  a  storm  gathers,  or  darkness  prevails, 
My  courage  deserts  me,  my  bravery  fails, 
And  I  want  to  hide  somewhere  and  cover  my  ears, 
And  give  myself  up  to  weak  womanish  tears." 

Her  ripple  of  talk  allowed  Roger  Montrose 

A  few  needed  moments  to  calm  and  compose 

His  excited  emotions;  to  curb  and  control 

The  turbulent  feelings  that  surged  through  his  soul 

At  the  sudden  encounter. 

"  I  quite  understand," 

He  said  in  a  voice  that  was  under  command 
Of  his  will,  "  All  yoqr  fears  in  a  storm  of  this  kind. 
There  is  something  uncanny  and  weird  in  the  wind; 
Intangible,  viewless,  it  speeds  on  its  course, 
And  forests  and  oceans  must  yield  to  its  force. 


Cbree  "Udomcn.  55 


What  art  has  constructed  with  patience  and  toil, 

The  wind  in  one  second  of  time  can  despoil. 

It  carries  destruction  and  death  and  despair, 

Yet  no  man  can  follow  it  into  its  lair 

And  bind  it  or  stay  it — this  thing  without  form. 

Ah!  there  comes  the  rain!  we  are  caught  in  the  storm. 

Put  my  coat  on  your  shoulders  and  come  with  me 

where 

Yon  rock  makes  a  shelter — I  often  sit  there 
To  watch  the  great  conflicts  'twixt  tempest  and  sea. 
Let  me  lie  at  your  feet!     Tis  the  last  time,  Miss  Lee, 
1  shall  see  you,  perchance,  in  this  life,  who  can  say? 
I  leave  on  the  morrow  at  break  o'  the  day." 

Mabel: 

Indeed?  Why,  how  sudden!  and  may  I  inquire 
The  reason  you  leave  us  without  one  desire 
To  return?  for  your  words  seem  a  final  adieu. 

Roger: 

\  never  expect  to  return,  that  is  true, 
Yet  my  wish  is  to  stay. 


56  Ebrce  tldomen. 


Mabel: 
Are  you  not  your  own  master  ? 

Roger: 

Alas,  yes !  and  therein  lies  the  cause  of  disaster. 
Myself  bids  me  go,  my  calm,  reasoning  part, 
The  will  is  the  man,  not  the  poor,  foolish  heart, 
Which  is  ever  at  war  with  the  intellect.     So 
I  silence  its  clamoring  voices  and  go. 
Were  I  less  my  own  master,  I  then  might  remain. 

Mabel: 
Your  words  are  but  riddles,  I  beg  you  explain. 

Roger: 

No,  no,  rather  bid  me  keep  silent !     To  say 
Why  I  go  were  as  weak  on  my  part  as  to  stay. 

Mabel: 

I  think  you  most  cruel !     You  know,  sir,  my  sex 
Loves  dearly  a  secret.     Then  why  should  you  vex 
And  torment  me  in  this  way  by  hinting  at  one? 

Roger: 
Let  us  talk  of  the  weather,  I  think  the  storm  done. 


Gbrcc  "Caomen.  57 


Mabel: 

Very  well !  1  will  go  !     No,  you  need  not  come  too, 
And  I  will  not  shake  hands,  I  am  angry  with  you. 

Roger: 
And  you  will  not  shake  hands  when  we  part  for  all  time? 

Mabel: 
Then  read  me  your  riddle ! 

Roger: 

No,  that  were  a  crime 

Against  honor  and  friendship;  girl,  girl,  have  a  care— 
You  are  goading  my  poor,  tortured  heart  to  despair. 

His  last  words  were  lost  in  the  loud  thunder's  crash; 
The  sea  seemed  ablaze  with  a  sulphurous  flash. 
From  the  rocks  just  above  them  an  evergreen  tree 
Was  torn  up  by  the  roots  and  flung  into  the  sea. 
The  waves  with   rude   arms  hurled    it   back   on    the 

shore; 

The  wind  gained  in  fury.     The  glare  and  the  roar 
Of  the  lightning  and  tempest  paled  Mabel  Lee's  cheek. 
Her  pupils  dilated;  she  sprang  with  a  shriek 


Gbree  Women, 


Of  a  terrified  child  lost  to  all  save  alarm, 

And  clasped  Roger  Montrose  with  both  hands  by  the 

arm, 
While  her  cheek  pressed   his   shoulder.     An   agony, 

sweet 

And  unbearable,  thrilled  from  his  head  to  his  feet, 
His  veins  were  like  rivers,  with  billows  of  fire: 
His  will  lost  control;  and  long  fettered  desire 
Slipped  its  leash.     He  caught  Mabel  Lee  to  his  breast, 
Drew  her  face  up  to  his,  on  her  frightened  lips  pressed 
Wild  caresses  of  passion  that  startled  and  shocked. 
Like  a  madman  he  looked,  like  a  madman  he  talked, 
Waiting  not  for  reply,  with  no  pause  but  a  kiss, 
While  his  iron  arms  welded  her  bosom  to  his. 
"Girl,  girl,  you  demanded  my  secret,"  he  cried; 
"Well,  that  bruise  on  your  lips  tells  the  story!  I  tried, 
Good  God,  how  1  tried!  to  be  silent  and  go 
Without  speaking  one  word,  without  letting  you  know 
That  I  loved  you;  yet  how  could  you  look  in  my  eyes 
And  not  see  love  was  there  like  the  sun  in  the  skies? 


Cbree  llClomen.  59 


Ah,  those  hands  on  my  arm— that  dear  head  lightly 

pressed 

On  my  shoulder!  God,  woman,  the  heart  in  my  breast 
Was  dry  powder,  your  touch  was  the  spark;  and  the 

blame 
Must  be  yours  if  both   lives  are  scorched  black  with 

the  flame. 

Do  you  hate  me,  despise  me,  for  being  so  weak? 
No,  no!  let  me  kiss  you  again  ere  you  speak! 
You  are  mine  for  the  moment;  and  mine — mine  alone 
Is  the  first  taste  of  passion  your  soft  mouth  has  known. 
Whoever  forestalls  me  in  winning  your  hand, 
Between  you  and  him  shall  this  mad  moment  stand— 
You  shall  think  of  me,  though  you  think  only  to  hate. 
There— speak  to  me— speak  to  me— tell  me  my  fate; 
On  your  words,  Mabel  Lee,  hangs  my  whole  future 

life. 

I  covet  you,  covet  you,  sweet,  for  my  wife; 
I  want  to  stay  here  at  your  side.     Since  I  first 
Saw  your  face  I  have  felt  an  unquenchable  thirst 


60  Gbree  Women. 


To  be  good— to  look  deep  in  your  eyes  and  find  God, 
And  to  leave  in  the  past  the  dark  paths  1  have  trod 
In  my  search  after  pleasure.     Ah,  must  1  go  back 
Into  folly  again,  to  retread  the  old  track 
Which  leads  out  into  nothingness?     Girl,  answer  me, 
As  souls  answer  at  Judgment." 

The  face  of  the  sea 

Shone  with  sudden  pink  splendor.     The  riotous  wind 
Swooned  away   with   exhaustion.     Each   dark  cloud 

seemed  lined 

With  vermilion.     The  tempest  was  over.     A  word 
Floated  up  like  a  feather;  the  silence  was  stirred 
By  the  soul  of  a  sigh.     The  last  remnant  of  gray 
In  the   skies  turned  to  gold,   as  a  voice    whispered, 

"  Stay." 


God  grinds  His  poor  people  to  powder 
All  day  and  all  night  I  can  hear, 

Their  cries  growing  louder  and  louder. 
Oh,  God,  have  You  deadened  Your  ear? 

The  chimes  in  old  Trinity  steeple 
Ring  in  the  sweet  season  of  prayer, 

And  still  God  is  grinding  His  people, 
He  is  grinding  them  down  to  despair. 

Mind,  body  and  muscle  and  marrow, 
He  grinds  them  again  and  again. 

Can  He  who  takes  heed  of  the  sparrow 
Be  blind  to  the  tortures  of  men? 


Cbree  tUomen.  63 


V. 

In  a  bare  little  room  of  a  tenement  row 
Of  the  city,  Maurice  sat  alone.     It  was  so 
(In  this  nearness  to  life's  darkest  phases  of  grief 
And  despair)  that  his  own  bitter  woe  found  relief. 
Joy  needs  no  companion;  but  sorrow  and  pain 
Long  to  comrade  with  sorrow.     The  flowery  chain 
Flung  by  Pleasure  about  her  gay  votaries  breaks 
With   the   least   strain    upon   it.     The   chain   sorrow 

makes 

Links  heart  unto  heart.     As  a  bullock  will  fly 
To  far  fields  when  an  arrow  has  pierced  him,  to  die, 
So  Maurice  had  flown  over  far  oceans  to  find 
No  balm  for  his  wounds,  and  no  peace  for  his  mind. 
Cosmopolitan,  always,  is  sorrow;  at  home 
In  all  countries  and  lands,  thriving  well  while  we  roam 
In  vain  efforts  to  slay  it.     Toil  only,  brings  peace 
To  the  tempest  tossed  heart.     What  in  travel  Maurice 
Failed  to  find — self-forgetfulness — came  with  his  work 
For  the  suffering  poor  in  the  slums  of  New  York. 


64  Gbtee  Wlomen. 


He  had  wandered  in  strange  heathen  countries — had 

been 

Among  barbarous  hordes;  but  the  greed  and  the  sin 
Of  his  own  native  land  seemed  the  shame  of  the  hour. 
In  his  gold  there  was  balm,  in  his  pen  there  was  power 
To  comfort  the  needy,  to  aid  and  defend 
The  unfortunate.     Close  in  their  midst,  as  a  friend 
And  companion,  for  more  than  twelve  months  he  had 

dwelt. 

Like  a  ray  of  pure  light  in  a  cellar  was  felt 
This  strong,  wholesome  presence.     His  little  room  bare 
Of  all  luxuries,  taught  the  poor  souls  who  flocked  there 
For  his  counsel  and  aid,  how  by  mere  cleanliness 
The  grim  features  of  want  lose  some  lines  of  distress. 
The  slips  from  the  plants  on  his  window  ledge,  given 
To  beauty  starved  souls,  spoke  more  clearly  of  heaven 
And  God  than  did  sermons  or  dry  creedy  tracts. 
Maurice  was  no  preacher;  and  yet  his  kind  acts 
Of  mercy  and  self-immolation  sufficed 
To  wake  in  dark  minds  a  bright  image  of  Christ — 


Cbrcc  XUomcn.  65 


The  Christ  often  heard  of,  but  doubted  before. 
Maurice  spoke  no  word  of  religion.     Of  yore 
His  heart  had  accepted  the  creeds  of  his  youth 
Without  pausing  to  cavil,  or  question  their  truth. 
Faith  seemed  his  inheritance.     But,  with  the  blow 
Which   slew   love   and    killed    friendship,   faith,   too, 
seemed  to  go. 

It  is  easy  to  be  optimistic  in  pleasure, 

But  when  Pain  stands  us  up  by  her  portal  to  measure 

The  actual  height  ot  our  trust  and  belief, 

Ah!  then  is  the  time  when  our  faith  comes  to  grief. 

The  woes  of  our  fellows,  God  sends  them,  'tis  plain; 

But  the  devil  himself  is  the  cause  of  our  pain. 

We  question  the  wisdom  that  rules  o'er  the  world, 

And  our  minds  into  chaos  and  darkness  are  hurled. 

The  average  scoffer  at  faith  goes  about 
Pouring  into  the  ears  of  his  fellows  each  doubt 
Which   assails   him.     One   truth   he  fails   wholly  to 

heed; 
That  a  doubt  oft  repeated  may  bore  like  a  creed. 


66  Gbree  Women. 


Maurice  kept  his  thoughts  to  himself,  but  his  pen 
Was  dipped  in  the  gall  of  his  heart  now  and  then, 
And  his  muse  was  the  mouthpiece.  The  sin 

unforgiven 

I  hold  by  the  Cherubim  chanting  in  heaven 
Is  the  sin  of  the  poet  who  dares  sing  a  strain 
Which  adds  to  the  world's  awful  chorus  of  pain 
And  repinings.     The  souls  whom  the  gods  bless 

at  birth 

With  the  great  gift  of  song,  have  been  sent  to  the  earth 
To  better  and  brighten  it.     Woe  to  the  heart 
Which  lets  its  own  sorrow  embitter  its  art. 
Unto  him  shall  more  sorrow  be  given;  and  life 
After  life  filled  with  sorrow,  till,  spent  with  the  strife, 
He  shall  cease  from  rebellion,  and  bow  to  the  rod 
In  submission,  and  own  and  acknowledge  his  God. 

Maurice,  with  his  unwilling  muse  in  the  gloom 
Of  a  mood  pessimistic,  was  shut  in  his  room. 
A  whistle,  a  step  on  the  stairway,  a  knock, 
Then  over  the  transom  there  fluttered  a  flock 


Gbree  TlClomen.  67 


Of  white  letters.     The  Muse,  with  a  sigh  of  content, 

Left  the  poet  to  read  them,  and  hurriedly  went 

Back  to   pleasanter   regions.     Maurice   glanced   them 

through: 

There  were  brief  business  epistles  from  two 
Daily  papers,  soliciting  work  from  his  pen ; 
A   woman    begged    money   for   Christ's   sake;    three 

men 

Asked  employment;  a  mother  wrote  only  to  say 
How  she  blessed  him  and  prayed  God  to  bless  him 

each  day 

For  his  kindness  to  her  and  to  hers;  and  the  last 
Was  a  letter  from  Ruth.     The  pale  ghost  of  the  past 
Rose  out  of  its  poor  shallow  grave,  with  the  scent 
And  the  mold  of  the  clay  clinging  to  it,  and  leant 
O'er  Maurice  as  he  read,  while  its  breath  fanned  his 

cheek. 

"Forgive  me,"  wrote  Ruth;  "for  at  last  I  must  speak 
Of  the  two  whom  you  wish  to  forget.     Well  I  know 
How  you  suffered,  r till  suffer,  from  fate's  sudden  blow, 


68  ftbree 


Though  I  am  a  woman,  and  women  must  stay 
And  fight  out  pain's  battles  where  men  run  away. 
But  my  strength  has  its  limit,  my  courage  its  end, 
The  time  has  now  come  when  I,  too,  leave  Bay  Bend. 
Maurice,  let  the  bitterness  housed  in  your  heart 
For  the  man  you  long  loved  as  a  comrade,  depart, 
And  let  pity  replace  it.     Oh,  weep  for  his  sorrow— 
From  your  fountain  of  grief,  held  in  check,  let  me 

borrow; 

I  have  so  overdrawn  on  the  bank  of  my  tears 
That    my    anguish    is    now   refused    payment.     For 

years 
You   loved   Mabel    Lee.    Well,  to  some  hearts  love 

speaks 

His  whole  tale  of  passion  in  brief  little  weeks. 
As  Minerva,  full  grown,  from  the  great  brow  of  Jove 
Sprang  to  life,  so  full  blown  from  our   breasts  may 

spring  Love.  • 

Love  hid  like  a  bee  in  my  heart's  lily  cup; 
I  knew  not  he  was  there  till  his  sting  woke  me  up. 


Cbrcc  taomen. 


Maurice,  oh  Maurice!   Can  you  fancy  the  woe 

Of  seeing  the  prize  which  you  coveted  so 

Misused,  or  abused,  by  another?     The  wife 

Of  the  man  whom  I  worshiped  is  spoiling  the  life 

That  was  wax  in  her  hands,  wax  to  shape  as  she 

chose. 

You  were  blind  to  her  faults,  so  was  Roger  Montrose. 
Both  saw  but   the   saint;   well,  let  saints   keep  their 

places, 

And  not  crowd  the  women  in  life's  hurried  races. 
As  saint,  Mabel  Lee  might  succeed;  but,  oh  brother, 
She  never  was  meant  for  a  wife  or  a  mother. 
Her  beautiful  home  has  the  desolate  air 
Of  a  house  that  is  ruled  by  its  servants.     The  care— 
The  thought  of  the  woman  (that  sweet,  subtle  power 
Pervading  some  rooms  like  the  scent  of  a  flower), 
Which  turns  house  into  home — that  is  lacking.   She  goes 
On  her  merciful  rounds,  does  our  Lady  Montrose, 
Looking  after  the  souls  of  the  heathen,  and  leaving 
The  poor  hungry  soul  of  her  lord  to  its  grieving. 


70  {Tbree  TKHomen. 


He  craves  her  companionship;  wants  her  to  be 

At  his  side,  more    his   own,   than  the  public's.     But 

she 
Holds  such  love  is  but  selfish;  and  thinks  he  should 

make 

Some  sacrifice  gladly  for  charity's  sake. 
Her  schools,  and  her  clubs,  and  her  fairs  fill  her  time; 
He  wants  her  to  travel;  no,  that  were  a  crime 
To  go  seeking  for  pleasure,  and  leave  duty  here. 
God  had  given  her  work  and  her  labor  lay  near. 
A  month  of  the  theater  season  in  town  ? 
No,  the  stage  is  an  evil  that  needs  putting  down 
By  good  people.     So,  scheme  as  he  will,  the  poor  man 
Has  to  finally  yield  every  project  and  plan 
To  this  sweet  stubborn  saint ;   for  the  husband,  you 

see, 

Stands  last  in  her  thoughts.     He  has  come,  after  three 
Patient    years,   to    that   knowledge;   his  wishes,    his 

needs 
Must  always  give  way  to  her  whims,  or  her  creeds. 


Ebrcc  Idomen.  7* 


She  knows  not  the  primer  of  loving;  her  soul 

Is  engrossed  with  the  poor  petty  wish  to  control, 

And  she  chafes  at  restriction.     Love  loves  to  be  bound, 

And  its  sweetest  of  freedom  in  bondage  is  found. 

She  pulls  at  her  fetters.     One  worshiping  heart 

And  its  faithful  devotion  play  but  a  small  part 

In  her  life.     She  would  rather  be  lauded  and  praised 

By  a  crowd  of  inferior  followers,  raised 

To  the  pitiful  height  of  their  leader,  than  be 

One  man's  goddess.     There,  now,  is  the  true  Mabel 

Lee! 

Grieve  not  that  you  lost  her,  but  grieve  for  the  one 
Who  with  me  stood  last  night  by  the  corpse  of  his 

son, 

And  with  me  stood  alone.     Ah!  how  wisely  and  well 
Could  Mabel  descant  on  Maternity!  tell 
Other  women  the  way  to  train  children  to  be 
An  honor  and  pride  to  their  parents  !     Yet  she, 
From  the  first,  left  her  child  to  the  nurses.     She  found 
'Twas  a  tax  on  her  nerves  to  have  baby  around 


72  Gbree  TKHomen. 


When  it  worried  and  cried.    The  nurse  knew  what  to  do, 
And  a  block  down  the  street  lived  Mama!  'twixt  the 

two 

Little  Roger  would  surely  be  cared  for.     She  must 
Keep  her  strength  and  be  worthy  the  love  and  the  trust 
Of  the  poor,  who  were  yearly  increasing,  and  not 
Bestow  on  her  own  all  the  care  and  the  thought — 
That  were  selfishness,  surely. 

Well,  the  babe  grew  apace, 
But  yesterday  morning  a  flush  on  its  face 
And  a  look  in  its  eye  worried  Roger.     The  mother 
Was  due  at  some  sort  of  convention  or  other 
In  Boston — I  think  'twas  a  grand  federation 
Of  clubs  formed  by  women  to  rescue  the  Nation 
From  man's  awful  clutches;  and  Mabel  was  made 
The  head  delegate  of  the  Bay  Bend  Brigade. 
Once  drop  in  a  small,  selfish  nature  the  seed 
Of  ambition  for  place,  and  it  grows  like  a  weed. 
The  fair  village  angel  we  called  Mabel  Lee, 
As  Mrs.  Montrose,  has  developed,  you  see, 


(Tbrcc  "Cdomcn.  73 


To  a  full  fledged  Reformer.     It  quite  turned  her  head 
To  be  sent  to  the  city  of  beans  and  brown  bread 
As  a  delegate  !     ( Delegate  !  magical  word  ! 
The  heart  of  the  queer  modern  woman  is  stirred 
Far  more  by  its  sound  than  by  aught  she  may  hear 
In  the  phrases  poor  Cupid  pours  into  her  ear.) 
Mabel  chirped  to  the  baby  a  dozen  good-byes, 
And  laughed  at  the  trouble  in  Roger's  grave  eyes, 
As  she  leaned  o'er  the  lace  ruffled  crib  of  her  son 
And  talked  baby-talk:  "Now  be  good,  'ittle  one, 
While  Mama  is  away,  and  don't  draw  a  long  breath, 
Unless  'oo  would  worry  Papa  half  to  death. 
And  don't  cough,  and,  of  all  things,  don't  sneeze,  'ittle 

dear, 

Or  Papa  will  be  thrown  into  spasms  of  fear. 
Now,  good-bye,  once  again,  'ittle  man;  mother  knows 
There  is  no  other  baby  like  Roger  Montrose 
In  the  whole  world  to-day." 

So  she  left  him.     That  night 
The  nurse  sent  a  messenger  speeding  in  fright 


74  ftbree  Women. 


For  the  Doctor;  a  second  for  Grandmama  Lee 

And  Roger  despatched  still  another  for  me. 

All  in  vain!  through  the  gray  chilly  paths  of  the  dawn 

The  soul  of  the  beautiful  baby  passed  on 

Into  Mother-filled  lands. 

Ah!  my  God,  the  despair 
Of  seeing  that  agonized  sufferer  there; 
To  stand  by  his  side,  yet  denied  the  relief 
Of  sharing,  as  wife,  and  as  mother,  his  grief. 
Enough!    I  have  borne  all  I  can  bear.     The  role 
Of  friend  to  a  lover  pulls  hard  on  the  soul 
Of  a  sensitive  woman.     The  three  words  in  life 
Which  have  meaning  to  me  are  home,   mother  and 

wife — 

Or,  rather,  wife,  mother  and  home.     Once   I  thought 
Men  cared  for  the  women  who  found  home  the  spot 
Next  to  heaven  for  happiness;  women  who  knew 
No  ambition  beyond  (being  loyal  and  true,  . 
And  who  loved  all  the  tasks  of  the  housewife.    I  learn, 
Instead,  that  from  women  of  that  kind  men  turn, 


(Tbrcc  "Caomcn  75 


With  a  yawn,  unto  those  who  are  useless;  who  live 
For  the  poor  hollow  world  and  for  what  it  can  give, 
And  who  make  home  the  spot  where,  when  other  joys 

cease, 
One  sleeps  late  when  one  wishes. 

You  left  me  Maurice 
Left   the  home    1    have  kept   since  our  dear  Mother 

died, 

With  such  sisterly  love  and  such  housewifely  pride, 
And  you  wandered  afar,  and  for  what  cause,  forsooth? 
Oh  !  because  a  vain,  self-loving  woman,  in  truth, 
Had    been   faithless.     The   man    whom    I   worshiped, 

ignored 

The  love  and  the  comfort  my  woman's  heart  stored 
In  its  depths  for  his  taking,  and  sought  Mabel  Lee. 
Well,  I'm  done  with  the  role  of  the  housewife.     I  see 
There  is  nothing  in  being  domestic.     The  part 
Is  unpicturesque,  and  at  war  with  all  art. 
The  senile  old  Century  leers  with  dim  eyes 
At  our  sex  and  demands  that  we  shock  or  surprise 


76  ftbree  TKHomen. 


His  thin  blood  into  motion.     The  home's  not  the  place 
To  bring  a  pleased  smile  to  his  wicked  old  face. 
To  the  mandate  I  bow;  since  all  strive  for  that  end, 
I  must  join  the  great  throng  !     I  am  leaving  Bay  Bend 
This  day  week.     I  will  see  you  in  town  as  I  pass 

To  the  college  at  C ,  where  I  enter  the  class 

Of  medical  students — I  fancy  you  will 

Like  to  see  my  name  thus — Dr.  Ruth  Somerville." 

Maurice  dropped  the  long,  closely  written  epistle, 
Stared  hard  at  the  wall,  and  gave  vent  to  a  whistle. 
A  Doctor !  his  sweet,  little  home-loving  sister. 
A  Doctor !  one  might  as  well  prefix  a  Mister 
To  Ruth  Somerville,  that  most  feminine  name. 
And  then  in  the  wake  of  astonishment  came 
Keen  pity  for  all  she  had  suffered.     "Poor  Ruth, 
She  writes  like  an  agonized  woman,  in  truth, 
And  like  one  torn  with  jealousy.     Ah,  I  can  see," 
He  mused,  "how  the  pure  soul  of  sweet  Mabel  Lee 
Revolts  at  the  bondage  and  shrinks  from  the  ban 
That  lies  in  the  love  of  that  sensual  man. 


£brcc  "Cdomen.  77 


He  is  of  the  earth,  earthy.     He  loves  but  her  beauty, 

He  cares  not  for  conscience,  or  honor  or  duty. 

Like  a  moth  she  was  dazzled  and  lured  by  the  flame 

Of  a  light  she  thought  love,  till  she  learned  its  true  name ; 

When  she  found  it  mere  passion,  it  lost  all  its  charms. 

No  wonder  she  flies  from  his  fettering  arms! 

God  pity  you,  Mabel!  poor  ill  mated  wife; 

But  my  love,  like  a  planet,  shall  watch  o'er  your  life, 

Though  all  other  light  from  your  skies  disappear, 

Like  a  sun  in  the  darkness  my  love  shall  appear. 

Unselfish  and  silent,  it  asks  no  return, 

But  while  the  great  firmament  lasts  it  shall  burn." 

Muse,  muse,  awake,  and  sing  thy  loneliest  strain, 
Song,  song,  be  sad  with  sorrow's  deepest  pain, 
Heart,  heart,  bow  down  and  never  bound  again, 

My  Lady  grieves,  she  grieves. 

Night,  night,  draw  close  thy  filmy  mourning  veil, 
Moon,  moon,  conceal  thy  beauty  sweet  and  pale, 
Wind,  wind,  sigh  out  thy  most  pathetic  wail, 

My  Lady  grieves,  she  grieves. 


£bree  TUJlomen. 


Time,  time,  speed  by,  thou  art  too  slow,  too  slow, 
Grief,  grief,  pass  on,  and  take  thy  cup  of  woe, 
Life,  life,  be  kind,  ah!  do  not  wound  her  so, 

My  Lady  grieves,  she  grieves. 

Sleep,  sleep,  dare  not  to  touch  mine  aching  eyes, 
Love,  love,  watch  on,  though  fate  thy  wish  denies, 
Heart,  heart,  sigh  on,  since  she,  my  Lady,  sighs, 

My  Lady  grieves,  she  grieves. 


The  flower  breathes  low  to  the  bee, 
"Behold,  I  am  ripe  with  bloom. 

Let  Love  have  his  way  with  me, 
Ere  I  fall  unwed  in  my  tomb." 

The  rooted  plant  sighs  in  distress 
To  the  winds  by  the  garden  walk 

"Oh,  waft  me  my  lover's  caress, 
Or  I  shrivel  and  die  on  my  stalk." 

The  whippoorwill  utters  her  love 
In  a  passionate  "Come,  oh  come," 

To  the  male  in  the  depths  of  the  grove, 
But  the  heart  of  a  woman  is  dumb. 

The  lioness  seeks  her  mate, 
The  she- tiger  calls  her  own — 

Who  made  it  a  woman's  fate 
To  sit  in  the  silence  alone? 


Sbr.cc  "CUomcn.  81 


VI. 

Wooed,  wedded  and  widowed  ere  twenty.     The  life 
Of  Zoe  Travers  is  told  in  that  sentence.     A  wife 
For  one  year,  loved  and  loving;  so  full  of  life's  joy 
That  death,  growing  jealous,  resolved  to  destroy 
The  Eden  she  dwelt  in.     Five  desolate  years 
She  walked  robed  in  weeds,  and  bathed  ever  in  tears, 
Through  the  valley  of  memory.     Locked  in  love's  tomb 
Lay  youth  in  its  glory  and  hope  in  its  bloom. 
At  times  she  was  filled  with  religious  devotion, 
Again  crushed  to  earth  with  rebellious  emotion 
And  unresigned  sorrow. 

Ah,  wild  was  her  grief ! 

And  the  years  seemed  to  bring  her  no  balm  of  relief. 
When  a  heart  from  its  sorrow  time  cannot  estrange, 
God  sends  it  another  to  alter  and  change 
The  current  of  feeling.     Zoe's  mother,  her  one 
Tie  to  earth,  became  ill.     When  the  doctors  had  done 
All  the  harm  which  they  dared  do  with  powder  and  pill, 
They  ordered  a  trial  of  Dame  Nature's  skill. 


82  Gbree  Women. 


Dear  Nature !  what  grief  in  her  bosom  must  stir 
When  she  sees  us  turn  everywhere  save  unto  her 
For  the  health  she  holds  always  in  keeping;  and  sees 
Us  at  last,  when  too  late,  creeping  back  to  her  knees, 
Begging  that  she  at  first  could  have  given! 

'Twas  so 

Mother  Nature's  heart  grieved  o'er  the  mother  of  Zoe, 
Who  came  but  to  die  on  her  bosom.     She  died 
Where  the  mocking  bird  poured  out  its  passionate  tide 
Of  lush  music;  and  all  through  the  dark  days  of  pain 
That  succeeded,  and  over  and  through  the  refrain 
Of  her  sorrow,  Zoe  heard  that  wild  song  evermore. 
It  seemed  like  a  blow  which  pushed  open  a  door 
In  her  heart.     Something  strange,  sweet  and  terrible 

stirred 

In  her  nature,  aroused  by  the  song  of  that  bird. 
It  rang  like  a  voice  from  the  future;  a  call 
That  came  not  from  the  past;  yet  the  past  held  'her  all. 
To  the  past  she  had  plighted  her  vows;  in  the  past 
Lay  her  one  dream  of  happiness,  first,  only,  last. 


Gbrcc  IQomen.  83 


Alone  in  the  world  now,  she  felt  the  unrest 

Of  an  unanchored  boat  on  the  wild  billow's  breast. 

Two  homes  had  been  shattered;  the  West  held   but 

tombs. 

She  drifted  again  where  the  magnolia  blooms 
And  the  mocking  bird   sings.     Oh !  that  song,  that 

wild  strain, 
Whose     echoes    still     haunted    her    heart    and     her 

brain  ! 

How  she  listened  to  hear  it  repeated  !     It  came 
Through  the  dawn  to  her  heart,  and  the  sound  was 

like  flame. 

It  chased  all  the  shadows  of  night  from  her  room, 
And  burst  the  closed  bud  of  the  day  into  bloom. 
It  leaped  to  the  heavens,  it  sank  to  the  earth 
It  gave  life  new  rapture  and  love  a  new  birth. 
It  ran  through  her  veins  like  a  fiery  stream, 
And  the  past  and  its  sorrow — was  only  a  dream. 

The  call  of  a  bird  in  the  spring  for  its  lover 
Is  the  voice  of  all  Nature  when  winter  is  over. 


84  Gbree  IKHomen. 


The  heart  of  the  woman  re-echoed  the  strain, 
And  its  meaning,  at  last,  to  her  senses  was  plain. 

Grief's  winter  was  over,  the  snows  from  her  heart 
Were  melted;  hope's  blossoms  were  ready  to  start. 
The  spring  had  returned  with  its  siren  delights, 
And  her  youth  and  emotions  asserted  their  rights. 
Then  memory  struggled  with  passion.     The  dead 
Seemed  to  rise  from  the  grave  and  accuse  her.     She  fled 
From  her  thoughts  as  from  lepers;   returned  to   old 

ways, 

And  strove  to  keep  occupied,  filling  her  days 
With  devotional  duties.     But  when  the  night  came 
She  heard  through  her  slumber  that  song  like  a  flame, 
And  her  dreams  were  sweet  torture.     She  sought  all 

too  soon 

To  chill  the  warm  sun  of  her  youth's  ardent  noon 
With  the  shadows  of  premature  evening.     Her  mind. 
Lacked  direction  and  purpose.     She  tried  in  a  blind, 
Groping  fashion  to  follow  an  early  ideal 
Of  love  and  of  constancy,  starving  the  real 


Cbrcc  "Cdomen.  85 


Affectional  nature  God  gave  her.     She  prayed 

For  God's  help  in  unmaking  the  woman  He  made, 

As  if  He  repented  the  thing  He  had  done. 

With  the  soul  of  a  Sappho,  she  lived  like  a  nun, 

Hid    her   thoughts  from  all    women,  from   men   kept 

apart, 

And  carefully  guarded  the  book  of  her  heart 
From  the  world's  prying  eyes.     Yet  men  read  through 

the  cover, 

And  knew  that  the  story  was  food  for  a  lover. 
(The  dullest  of  men  seemed  possessed  of  the  art 
To  read  what  the  passions  inscribe  on  the  heart. 
Though  written  in  cipher  and  sealed  from  the  sight, 
Yet  masculine  eyes  will  interpret  aright.) 
Worn  out  with  the  unceasing  conflict  at  last, 
Zoe  fled  from  herself  and  her  sorrowful  past, 
And  turned  to  new  scenes  for  diversion  from  thought. 

New  York  !  oh,  what  magic  encircles  that  spot 

In  the  feminine  mind  of  the  West !     There,  it  seems, 

Waits  the  realization  of  beautiful  dreams. 


86  Gbree  Momen. 


There  the  waters  of  Lethe  unceasingly  roll, 
With  blessed  forgetfulness  free  to  each  soul, 
While  the  doorways  that  lead  to  success  open  wide, 
With  Fame  in  the  distance  to  beckon  and  guide. 
Mirth  lurks  in  each  byway,  and  Folly  herself 
Wears  the  look  of  a  semi-respectable  elf, 
And  is  to  be  courted  and  trusted  when  met, 
For  she  teaches  one  how  to  be  gay  and  forget, 
And  to  start  new  account  books  with  life. 

It  was  so, 

Since  she  first  heard  the  name  of  the  city,  that  Zoe 
Dreamed  of   life  in   New   York.     It   was  thither  she 

turned 

To  smother  the  heart  that  with  restlessness  burned, 
And  to  quiet  and  calm  an  unsatisfied  mind. 
Her  plans  were  but  outlines,  crude,  vague,  undefined, 
Of  distraction  and  pleasure.     A  snug  little  home, 
With  seclusion  and  comfort;  full  freedom  to  roam 
Where  her  fancy  and  income  permitted;  new  faces, 
New  scenes,  new  environments,  far  from  the  places 


Sbree  Tiaomcn.  87 


Where  brief  joy  and  long  sorrow  had  dwelt  with  her;  free 
From  the  curious  eyes  that  seemed  ever  to  be 
Bent  upon  her.     She  passed  like  a  ship  from  the  port, 
Without  chart  or  compass;  the  plaything  and  sport 
Of  the  billows  of  Fate.  . 

The  parks  were  all  gay 
And  busy  with  costuming  duties  of  May 
When   Zoe  reached  New  York.      The  rain   and   the 

breeze 

Had  freshened  the  gowns  of  the  Northern  pine  trees 
Till  they  looked  bright  as  new;  all  the  willows  were 

seen 

In  soft  dainty  garments  of  exquisite  green. 
Young   buds   swelled   with  life,  and  reached   out  to 

invite 

And  to  hold  the  warm  gaze  of  the  wandering  light. 
The  turf  exhaled  fragrance;  among  the  green  boughs 
The  unabashed  city  birds  plighted  their  vows, 
Or  happy  young  house  hunters  chirped  of  the  best 
And  most  suitable  nook  to  establish  a  nest. 


Sbree  "Qdomen. 


There  was  love  in  the  sunshine,  and  love  in  the  air; 

Youth,  hope,  home,  companionship,  spring,  every 
where. 

There  was  youth,  there  was  spring  in  her  blood;  yet 
she  only, 

In  all  the  great  city,  seemed  loveless  and  lonely. 

The  trim  little  flat,  facing  north  on  the  park, 

Was  not  homelike;  the  rooms  seemed  too  sombre  and 

dark 

To  her  eyes,  sun-accustomed;  the  neighbors  too  near 
And  too  noisy.     The  medley  of  sounds  hurt  her  ear. 
Sudden  laughter;  the  cry  of  an  infant;  the  splash 
Of  a  tenant  below  in  his  bath-tub;  the  crash 
Of  strong  hands  on  a  keyboard  above,  and  the  light, 
Merry  voice  of  the  lady  who  lived  opposite, 
The  air  intertwined  in  a  tangled  sound  ball, 
And  flung  straight  at  her  ear  through  the  court  and 

the  hall. 

Ah,  what  loneliness  dwelt  in  the  rush  and  the  stir 
Of  the  great  pushing  throngs  that  were  nothing  to  her, 


Cbrce  "CClomcn.  89 


And  to  whom  she  was  nothing!    Her  heart,  on  its  quest 
For  distraction,  seemed  eating  itself  in  her  breast. 
She  longed  for  a  comrade,  a  friend.     In  the  church 
Which  she  frequented  no  one  abetted  her  search, 
For  the  faces  of  people  she  met  in  its  aisle 
Gazed  calmly  beyond  her,  without  glance  or  smile. 
The  look  in  their  eyes,  when  translated,  read  thus, 
"We  worship  God  here,  what  are  people  to  us?" 
In  some  masculine  eyes  she  read  more,  it  is  true. 
What  she  read  made  her  gaze  at  the  floor  of  her  pew. 

The  blithe  little  blonde  who  lived  over  the  hall, 

In  the  opposite  rooms,  was  the  first  one  to  call 

Or  to  show  friendly  feeling.     She  seemed  sweet  and 

kind, 

But  her  infantile  face  hid  a  mercantile  mind. 
Her  voice  had  the  timbre  of  metal.     Each  word 
Clinked  each  word  like  small  change  in  a  purse;  and 

you  heard, 

In  the  rustling  silk  of  her  skirts,  just  a  hint 
Of  new  bills  freshly  printed  and  right  from  the  mint. 


9o  Gbree  TJdomen. 


There  was  that  in  her  airs  and  her  chatter  which  made 

Zoe  question  and  ponder,  and  turn  half  afraid 

From  her  proffers  of  friendship.     When  one  July  day 

The  fair  neighbor  called  for  a  moment  to  say, 

"I  am  off  to  Long  Branch  for  the  summer,  good-bye," 

Zoe  seemed  to  breathe  freer — she  scarcely  knew  why, 

But  she  reasoned  it  out  as  alone  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  soft  summer  evening  she  sat  in  her  room. 

"The  woman  is  happy,"  she  said;  "at  the  least, 

Her  heart  is  not  starving  in  life's  ample  feast. 

She  lives  while  she  lives,  but  I  only  exist, 

And  Fate  laughs  in  my  face  for  the  things  1  resist." 

New  York  in  the  midsummer  seems  like  the  gay 
Upper  servant  who  rules  with  the  mistress  away. 
She  entertains  friends  from  all  parts  of  the  earth; 
Her  streets  are  alive  with  a  fictitious  mirth. 
She  flaunts  her  best  clothes  with  a  devil-may-care 
Sort  of  look,  and  her  parks  wear  a  riotous  air. 
There  is  something  unwholesome  about  her  at  dusk; 
Her  trees,  and  her  gardens,  seem  scented  with  musk; 


dbrcc  XOomcn. 


And  you  feel  she  has  locked  up  the  door  of  the  house 
And,  half  drunk   with   the    heat,   wanders    forth   to 

carouse, 

With  virtue,  ambition  and  industry  all 
Packed  off  (moth-protected)  with  garments  for  Fall. 

Zoe  felt  out  of  step  with  the  town.     In  the  song 
Which  it  sang,  where   each  note   was  a  soul  of   the 

throng, 

She  seemed  the  one   discord.     Books  gave   no    dis 
traction. 

She  cared  not  for  study,  her  heart  longed  for  action, 
For  pleasure,  excitement.     Wild  impulses,  new 
To  her  mind,  came  like  demons  and  urged  her  to  do 
All  sorts  of  mad  things.     Mischief  breathed  through 

the  air. 
One  could  do  as  one  liked  in  New  York— who  would 

care — 
Who  would    know  save  the  God   who   had    left  her 

alone 
In  his  world,  unprotected,  unloved?     From  her  own 


92  Gbree  Women. 


Restless  mind  and  sick  heart  she  attempted  once  more 
To  escape.   One  reads  much  of  gay  life  at  the  shore— 
Narragansett,  she  fancied,  would  suit  her.     The  sea 
Would  at  least  prove  a  friend;  and,  perchance,  there 

might  be 

Some  heart,  like  her  own,  seeking  comradeship  there. 
The  days  brought  no  friend.      But  the  moist,  salty  air 
Was  a  stimulant,  giving  existence  new  charms. 
The  sea  was  a  lover  who  opened  his  arms 
Every  day  to  embrace  her.     And  life  in  this  place 
Held  something  of  pleasure,  and  sweetness  and  grace, 
Though  the  eyes  of  the  men  were  too  ardent  and  bold, 
And  the  eyes  of  the  women  suspicious  and  cold, 
She  yet  had  the  sea — the  sea,  strong  and  mighty, 
Both  father  and  mother  of  fair  Aphrodite. 


Cbrcc  'Gaomcn.  93 


VII. 

Mabel  grieved  for  her  child  with  a  sorrow  sincere, 

But  she  bowed  to  the  will  of  her  Maker.     No  tear 

Came  to  soften  the  hard,  stony  look  in  the  eye 

Of  her  husband;  she  heard  no  complaint  and  no  sigh 

From  his  lips,  but  he  turned  with  impatience  whenever 

She  spoke  of  religion,  or  made  one  endeavor 

To  lead  his  thoughts  up  from  the  newly  turned  sod 

Where  the  little  form  slept,  to  its  spirit  with  God. 

Long  hours  by  that  grave,  Roger  passed,  and  alone. 
The  woes  of  her  neighbors  his  wife  made  her  own, 
But  her  husband  she  pointed  to  Christ;  and  in  grief 
Prayed  for  light  to  be  cast  on  his  dark  unbelief. 

She  flung  herself  into  good  works  more  and  more, 
And  saw  not  that  the  look  which  her  husband's  face 

wore 

Was  the  look  of  a  man  starved  for  love.     In  the  mold 
Of  a  nun  she  was  fashioned,  chaste,  passionless,  cold. 
(Such  women  sin  more  when  they  take  marriage  ties 
Than  the  love-maddened  creature  who  lawlessly  lies 


94  Ebree 


In  the  arms  of  the  man   whom   she  worships.     The 

child 

Not  conceived  in  true  .love  leaves  the  mother  defiled. 
Though  an  army  of  clergymen  sanction  her  vows, 
God  sees  "illegitimate"  stamped  on  the  brows 
Of  her  offspring.     Love  only  can  legalize  birth 
In  His  eyes — all  the  rest  is  but  spawn  of  the  earth.) 

Mabel   Lee,  as   the    maid,    had    been    flattered    and 

pleased 

By  the  passion  of  Roger;  his  wild  wooing  teased 
That  inquisitive  sense,  half  a  fault,  half  a  merit, 
Which  the  daughters  of  Eve,  to  a  woman,  inherit. 
His  love  fanned  her  love  for  herself  to  a  glow; 
She  was  stirred  by  the  thought  she  could  stir  a  man 

so. 

That  was  all.     She  had  nothing  to  give  in  return. 
One  can't  light  a  fire  with  no  fuel  to  burn; 
And  the  love  Roger  dreamed  he  could  rouse  in  her 

soul 
Was  not  there  to  be  wakened.     He  stood  at  his  goal 


tTbrcc  Xdomen.  95 


As  the  Arctic  explorer  may  finally  stand, 
To  see  all  about  him  an  ice  prisoned  land, 
White,  beautiful,  useless. 

Some  women  are  chaste, 
Like    the     snows     which    envelop     the    bleak    arid 

waste 

Of  the  desert;  once  melted,  alas!  what  remains 
But  the  poor,  unproductive,  dry  soil  of  the  plains? 
The  flora  of  Cupid  will  never  be  found, 
However  he  toil  there,  to  thrive  in  such  ground. 

Mabel  Montrose  was  held  in  the  highest  esteem 

By    her   neighbors;    I  think    neighbors   everywhere 

deem 

Such  women  to  be  all  that's  noble.     They  sighed 
When  they  spoke  of  her  husband;  they  told  how  she 

tried 
To  convert  him,  and   how  they  had  thought   for  a 

season 
His  mind  was  bent  Christ-ward;  and  then,  with  no 

reason, 


Cbree 


He  seemed  to  drift  back  to  the  world,  and  grew  jealous 
Of  Mabel,  and  thought  her  too  faithful  and  zealous 
In  duty  to  others. 

The  death  of  his  child 

Only  hardened  his  heart  against  God.     He  grew  wild, 
Took  to  drink;  spent  a  week  at  a  time  in  the  city, 
Neglecting  his  saint  of  a  wife — such  a  pity. 
It  was  true.     Our  friends  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  our  deeds 
But  the  fine  interlining  of  causes — who  heeds  ? 
The  long  list  of  heartaches  which  lead  to  rash  acts 
Would  bring  pity,  not  blame,  if  the  world  knew  the  facts. 

There  are  women  so  terribly  free  from  all  evil, 
They  discourage  a  man,  and  he  goes  to  the  devil. 
There  are  people  whose  virtues  result  in  appalling, 
And  they  prove  a  great  aid  to  his  majesty's  calling. 

Roger's  wife  rendered  goodness  so  dreary  and  cold, 
His  tendril-like  will 'lost  its  poor  little  hold 
On  the  new  better  life  he  was  longing  to  reach, 
And    slipped  back  to  the  dust.     Oh  !  to   love,  not  to 
preach. 


Cbrcc  tUomcn.  g7 


Is  a  woman's  true  method  of  helping  mankind. 
The  sinner  is  won  through  his  heart,  not  his  mind. 
As  the  sun  loves  the  seed  up  to  life  through  the  sod, 
So  the  patience  of  love  brings  a  soul  to  its  God. 
But  when  love  is  lacking,  the  devil  is  sure 
To  stand  in  the  pathway  with  some  sort  of  lure. 
Roger  turned  to  the  world   for  distraction.     The  world 
Smiled  a  welcome,  and  then  like  an  octopus  curled 
All  its  tentacles  'round  him,  and  dragged  him  away 
Into  deep,  troubled  waters. 

One  late  summer  day 

He  awoke  with  a  headache,  which  will  not  surprise, 
When  you  know  that  his  bedtime  had  been  at  sun 
rise, 

And    that    gay    Narraganset,    the    world    renowned 
"Pier," 

Was  the  scene.     Through  the  lace  curtained  window 

the  clear 

Yellow  rays  of  the  hot  August  sun  touched  his  bed 
And  proclaimed  it  was  mid-day.    He  rose,  and  his  head 


98  Gbree  TCQomen. 


Seemed  as  large  and  as  light  as  an  air  filled  balloon 
While  his  limbs  were  like  lead. 

In  the  glare  of  the  noon, 

The  follies  of  night  show  their  makeup,  and  seem 
Like  hideous  monsters  evoked  by  some  dream. 

The  sea  called  to  Roger:  "Come,  lie  on  my  breast 
And   forget  the   dull   world.     My    unrest   shall  give 

rest 

To  your  turbulent  feelings;  the  dregs  of  the  wine 
On  your  lips  shall  be  lost  in  the  salt  touch  of  mine. 
Come  away,  come  away.     Ah!  the  jubilant  mirth 
Of  the  sea  is  not  known  by  the  stupid  old  earth." 

The  beach  swarmed  with  bathers — to  be  more  exact, 
Swarmed  with  people  in  costumes  of  bathers.     In  fact, 
Many  beautiful  women  bathed  but  in  the  light 
Of  men's  eyes;  and  their  costumes  were  made  for  the 

sight, 

Not  the  sea.     From  the  sea's  lusty  outreaching  arms 
They  escaped   with    shrill    shrieks,   while   the   men 

viewed  their  charms 


Gbrcc  TUomen. 


And  made  mental  notes  of  them.     Yet,  at  this  hour, 
The     waves,     too,     were     swelling     sea     meadows, 

a-flower 

With  faces  of  swimmers.     All  dressed  for  his  bath, 
Roger  paused  in  confusion,  because  in  his  path 
Surged  a  crowd  of  the  curious;  all  eyes  were  bent 
On  the  form  of  a  woman  who  leisurely  went 
From  her  bathing  house  down  to  the  beach.     "There 

she  goes," 

Roger  heard  a  dame  cry,  as  she  stepped  on  his  toes 
With  her  whole  ample  weight.     "What,  the  one  with 

red  hair? 

Why,  she  isn't  as  pretty  as  Maude,  I  declare." 
A  man  passing  by  with  his  comrade,  cried:  "Ned, 
Look !  there  is  La  Travers,  the  one  with  the  red 
Braid  of  hair  to  her  knees.     She's  a  mystery  here, 
And  at  present  the  topic  of  talk  at  the  Pier." 
Roger  followed  their  glances  in  time  to  behold 
For  a  second  a  head  crowned  with  braids  of  bright 

gold, 


ioo  Gbree  IKHomen. 


And  a  form  like  a  Venus,  all  costumed  in  white. 
Then  she   plunged   through  a   billow   and   vanished 
from  sight. 

It  was  half  an  hour  afterward,  possibly  more, 
As  Roger  swam  farther  and  farther  from  shore, 
With    new   life   in    his   limbs   and    new   force  in  his 

brain, 

That  he  heard,  just  behind  him,  a  sharp  cry  of  pain. 
Ten  strokes  in  the  rear  on  the  crest  of  a  wave 
Shone  a  woman's  white  face.     "Keep  your  courage; 

be  brave; 

I  am  coming,"  he  shouted.     "Turn  over  and  float." 
His    strong    shoulder    plunged    like    the   prow   of  a 

boat 
Through  the  billows.     Six  overhand  strokes  brought 

him  close 

To  the  woman,  who  lay  like  a  wilted  white  rose 
On  the  waves.     "Now,   be  careful,"   he  cried;  "lay 

your  hand 
Well  up  on  my  shoulder;  my  arms,  understand, 


Ebrcc  'CUemcn. 


101 


Must  be  free;  do  not  touch  them — please  follow  my 

wishes, 

Unless  you  are  anxious  to  fatten  the  fishes." 
The  woman  obeyed  him.     "You  need  not  fear  me," 
She  replied,  "  I  am  wholly  at  home  in  the  sea. 
1  knew  all  the  arts  of  the  swimmer,  I  thought, 
But  confess  1  was  frightened  when  suddenly  caught 
With  a  cramp  in  my  knee  at  this  distance  from  shore." 
With  slow  even  breast  strokes  the  strong  swimmer  bore 
His  fair  burden  landward.     She  lay  on  the  billows 
As  lightly  as  if  she  were  resting  on  pillows 
Of  down.     She  relinquished  herself  to  the  sea 
And  the  man,  and,  was  saved;  though  God    knows 

both  can  be 

False  and  fickle  enough;  yet  resistance  or  strife, 
On  occasions  like  this,  means  the  forfeit  of  life. 
The  throng  of  the  bathers  had  scattered  before 
Roger  carried  his  burden  safe  into  the  shore 
And  saw  her  emerge  from  the  water,  a  place 
Where  most  women  lose  every  vestige  of  grace 


102  tfbree  TKHomen. 


Or  of  charm.     But  this  mermaid  seemed  fairer  than 

when 

She  had  challenged  the  glances  of  women  and  men 
As   she   went   to   her   bath.     Now   her  clinging  silk 

suit 

Revealed  every  line,  from  the  throat  to  the  foot, 
Of  her  beautiful  form.     Her  arms,  in  their  splendor, 
Gleamed  white  like  wet  marble.     The  round  waist 

was  slender, 

And  yet  not  too  small.     From  the  twin  perfect  crests 
And  the  virginlike  grace  of  her  beautiful  breasts 
To  the  exquisite  limbs  and  the  curve  of  her  thigh, 
And  the  arch  of  her  proud  little  instep,  the  eye 
Drank  in  beauty.     Her  face  was  not  beautiful;  yet 
The  gaze  lingered  on  it,  for  Eros  had  set 
His  seal  on  her  features.     The  mouth  full  and  weak, 
The  blue  shadow  drooping  from  eyelid  to  cheek 
Like  a  stain  of  crushed  grapes,  and  the  pale,  ardent 

skin, 
All  spoke  of  volcanic  emotions  within. 


Gbrcc  taomen.  103 


By  her  tip  tilted  nose  and  low  brow,  it  was  plain 
To  read  how  her  impulses  ruled  o'er  her  brain. 
She  had  given  the  chief  role  of  life  to  her  heart, 
And  her  intellect  played  but  a  small  minor  part. 
Her  eyes  were  the  color  the  sunlight  reveals 
When  it  pierces  the  soft,  furry  coat  of  young  seals. 
The  thickly  fringed  lids  seemed  unwilling  to  rise, 
But  drooped,  half  concealing  them;  wonderful  eyes, 
Full  of  secrets  and  bodings  of  sorrow.     As  coarse 
And    as   thick   as   the   mane    of    a    finely    groomed 

horse 
Was  her  bright  mass  of  hair.     The  sea,  with  rough 

hands, 
Had  made  free  with  the  braids,  and  unloosened  the 

strands 

Till  they  hung  in  great  clusters  of  curls  to  her  knees. 
Her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  held  the  breadth  and  the 

breeze 

Of  the  West  in  its  tones;  and  the  use  of  the  /? 
Made  the  listener  certain  her  home  had  been  far 


104  Gbree  TKHomen. 


From  New  England.     Long  after   she  vanished  from 

view 

The  eye  and  the  ear  seemed  to  sense  her  anew. 
There  was  that  in  her  voice  and  her  presence  which 

hung 

In  the  air  like  a  strain  of  a  song  which  is  sung 
By  a  singer,  and  then  sings  itself  the  whole  day, 
And  will  not  be  silenced. 

As  birds  flock  away 

From  meadow  to  tree  branch,  now  there  and  now  here, 
So,  from  beach  to  Casino,  each  day  at  the  Pier 
Flock  the  gay  pleasure  seekers.     The  balconies  glow 
With  beauty  and  color.     The  belle  and  the  beau 
Promenade  in  the  sunlight,  or  sit  tete-a-tete, 
While  the  chaperons  gossip  together.     Bands  play, 
Glasses  clink;  and  'neath  sheltering  lace  parasols 
There  are  plans  made  for  meeting  at  drives  or  at  balls. 

Roger  sat  at  a  table  alone,  with  his  glass 
Of   mint  julep    before  him,  and  watched  the  crowd 
pass. 


Cbrcc  tQomcn.  105 


There  were  all  sorts  of  people  from  all  sorts  of  places. 
He  thought  he  liked  best  the  fair  Baltimore  faces. 
The  South  was  the  land  of  fair  women,  he  mused, 
Because  they  were  indolent.     Women  who  used 
Mind  or  body  too  freely.   Changed  curves  into  angles, 
For  beauty  forever  with  intellect  wrangles. 
The  trend  of  the  fair  sex  to-day  must  alarm 
Every  lover  of  feminine  beauty  and  charm. 

As  he  mused  Roger  watched  with  a  keen  interest 
For  a  sight  of  his  Undine.     "  All  coiffured  and  drest, 
With  her  wonderful  body  concealed,  and  her  hair 
Knotted  up,  well,  1  doubt  if  she  seem  even  fair," 
He  soliloquized.     "Ah!"  the  word  burst  from  his  lips, 
For  he  saw  her  approaching.     She  walked  from  the 

hips 

With  an  undulous  motion.     As  graceful  and  free 
From  all  effort  as  waves  swinging  in  from  the  sea 
Were  her  movements.     Her  full  molded  figure  seemed 

slight 
In  its  close  fitting  gown  of  black  cloth;  and  the  white 


106  Ebree  IKIlomen. 


Of  her  cheek   seemed  still  whiter  by  contrast.     Her 

clothes 

Were  tasteful  and  quiet;  yet  Roger  Montrose 
Knew  in  some  subtle  manner  he  could  not  express 
(Tis  an  instinct  men  have  in  the  matters  of  dress) 
That  they  never  were  made  in  New  York.     By  her 

hat 

One  can  oft  read  a  woman's  whole  character.     That 
Which  our  fair  Undine  wore  was  a  thing  of  rich  lace, 
Flowers  and  ribbons  like  others  one  saw  in  the  place, 
Yet  the  width  of  the  brim,  or  the  twist  of  its  bows, 
Or  the  way  it  was  worn  made  it  different  from  those. 
As  it  drooped  o'er  the  eyes  full  of  mystery  there, 
It  seemed,  all  at  once,  both  a  menace  and  dare; 
A  menace  to  women,  a  dare  to  the  men. 
She  bowed  as  she  passed  Roger's  table;  and  then 
Took  a  chair  opposite,  spread  her  shade  of  red  silk, 
Called  a  waiter  and  ordered  a  cup  of  hot  milk,       .; 
Which  she  leisurely  sipped.     She  seemed  unaware 
Of  the  curious  eyes  she  attracted.     Her  air 


ttbrcc  *caomen.  107 


Was  of  one  quite  at  home,  and  entirely  at  ease 
With  herself,  the  sole  person  she  studied  to  please. 
She  had  been  for  three  weeks  at  the  Pier,  and  alone, 
Without  maid  or  escort,  and  nothing  was  known 
Of  her  there,  save  the  name  which  the  register  bore, 
"  Mrs.  Travers,  New  York."     Men  were  mad  to  learn 

more 
But  the  women  were  distant.      One   can't,  at  such 

places, 

Accept  as  credentials  good  figures  or  faces. 
There  was  an  unnameable  something  about 
Mrs.  Travers  which  filled  other  women  with  doubt 
And  all  men  with  interest.     Roger,  blase', 
Disillusioned  with  life  as  he  was,  felt  the  sway 
Of  her  strong  personality,  there  as  she  sat 
Looking  out  'neath  the  rim  of  her  coquettish  hat 
With  dark  eyes  on  the  sea.     Few  people  had  power 
To  draw  his  gray  thoughts  from  himself  for  an  hour 
As  this  woman  had  done;  she  was  food  for  his  mind, 
And  he  sought  by  his  inner  perceptions  to  find 


io8  Gbree  "Wllomen. 


In  what  class  she  belonged.  "  An  adventuress?  No, 
Though  1  fancy  three-fourths  of  the  women  think  so 
And  one-half  of  the  men;  but  that  role  leaves  a 

trace, 

An  expression,  I  fail  to  detect  in  her  face. 
Her  past  is  not  shadowed;  my  judgment  would  say 
That  her  sins  lie  before  her,  and  not  far  away. 
She's  a  puzzle,  1  think,  to  herself;  and  grim  Fate 
Will  aid  her  in  solving  the  riddle  too  late. 
Her  soul  dreams  of  happiness;  but  in  her  eyes 
The  sensuous  foe  to  all  happiness  lies. 
As  the  rain  is  drawn  up  by  some  moods  of  the  sun, 
Some  natures  draw  trouble  from  life;  her's  is  one." 

She  rose  and  passed  by  him  again,  and  her  gown 
Brushed    his  knee.     A   light   tremor   went  shivering 

down 

His  whole  body.     She  left  on  the  air  as  she  went 
A  subtle  suggestion  of  perfume;  the  scent 
Which  steals  out  of  some  fans,  or  old  laces,  and  seems 
Full  of  soft  fragrant  fancies  and  languorous  dreams. 


(Tbrcc  IHlomen.  109 


She  haunted  the  mind,  though  she  passed  from  the 
sight. 

When  Roger  Montrose  sought  his  pillow  that  night, 

Twas  to  dream  of  La  Travers.  He  thought  she  be 
came 

A  burning  red  rose,  with  each  leaf  like  a  flame. 

He  stooped  down  and  plucked  it,  and  woke  with  a 
start, 

As  it  turned  to  an  adder  and  struck  at  his  heart. 

The  dream  left  its  impress,  as  certain  dreams  should, 
For,  as  warnings  of  evil,  precursors  of  good, 
They  are  sent  to  our  souls  o'er  a  mystical  line, 
Night  messages,  couched  in  a  cipher  divine. 

Roger  knew  much  of  life,  much  of  women,  and  knew 
Even  more  of  himself  and  his  weaknesses.     Few 
Of  us  mortals  look  inward;  our  gaze  is  turned  out 
To  watch  what  the  rest  of  the  world  is  about, 
While  the  rest  of  the  world  watches  us. 

Roger's  reason 
And  logic  were  clear.    But  his  will  played  him  treason. 


i  io  dbree  Women. 


If  you  looked  at  his  hand,  you  would  see  it.     Hands 

speak 
More  than  faces.     His  thumb  (the  first  phalanx)  was 

weak, 

Undeveloped;  the  second,  firm  jointed  and  long, 
Which  showed  that  the  reasoning  powers  were  strong, 
But  the  will,  from  disuse,  had  grown  feeble. 

That  morning 

He  looked  on  his  dream  in  the  light  of  a  warning 
And  made  sudden  plans  for  departure.     "To  go 
Is  to  fly  from  some  folly,"  he  said,  "for  I  know 
What  salt  air  and  dry  wine,  and  the  soft  siren  eyes 
Of  a  woman,  can  do  under  midsummer  skies 
With  a  man  who  is  wretched  as  I  am.     Unrest 
Is  a  tramp,  who  goes  picking  the  locks  on  one's  breast 
That  a  whole  gang  of  vices  may  enter.     A  thirst 
For  strong  drink  and  chance  games,  those  twin  com 
rades  accursed, 

Are  already  admitted.     Oh  Mabel,  my  wife, 
Reach,  reach  out  your  arms,  draw  me  into  the  life 


Cbrce  TOomen.  m 


That  alone  is  worth  living.     I  need  you  to-day, 
Have  pity,  and  love  me,  oh  love  me,  I  pray. 
I  will  turn  once  again  from  the  bad  world  to  you. 
Though  false  to  myself,  to  my  vows  I  am  true." 

When  a  soul  strives  to  pull  itself  up  out  of  sin 

The  devil  tries  harder  to  push  it  back  in. 

And  the  man  who  attempts  to  retrace  the  wrong  track 

Needs  his  God  and  his  will  to  stand  close  at  his  back. 

Through  what  are  called  accidents,  Roger  was  late 
At  the  train.     Are  not  accidents  servants  of  Fate? 
The  first  coach  was  filled;  he  passed  on  to  the  second. 
That,  too,  seemed  complete,  but  a  gentleman  beckoned 
And  said,  "There's  a  seat,  sir;  the  third  from  the  last 
On   your   left."     Roger   thanked   him   and    leisurely 

passed 

Down  the  aisle,  with  his  coat  on  his  arm,  to  the  place 
Indicated.     The  seat  held  a  lady,  whose  face 
Was  turned  to  the  window.     "Pray  pardon  me,  miss" 
(For  he  judged  by  her  back  she  was  youthful),  "is 

this 


ii2  Cbree  Women. 


Seat   engaged?"     As   he   spoke,  the   face  turned    in 

surprise, 

And  Roger  looked  into  the  long,  languid  eyes 
Of  La  Travers.     She  smiled,  moved  her  wraps  from 

the  seat, 

And  he  sat  down  beside  her.     The  same  subtle,  sweet 
Breath  of  perfume   exhaled  from  her   presence,   and 

made 

The  place  seem  a  boudoir.     The  deep  winey  shade 
'Neath   her   eyes   had   grown   larger,  as   if   she   had 

wept 
Or  a  late,  lonely  vigil  with  memory  kept. 

A  man  who  has  rescued  a  woman  from  danger 
Or  death,  does  not  seem  to  her  wholly  a  stranger 
When  next  she  encounters  him;  yet  both  essayed 
To  be  formal  and  proper;  and  each  of  them  made 
The  effort  a  failure.     The  jar  of  a  train 
At  times  holds  a  mesmeric  spell  for  the  brain 
And  a  tense  excitation  for  nerves;  and  the  shriek 
Of  the  engine  compels  one  to  lean  near  to  speak 


Gbrec  TOlomcn.  113 


Or  to  list  to  his  neighbor.     Formality  flies 
With  the  smoke  of  the  train  and  floats  off  to  the  skies. 
Roger  led  his  companion  to  talk;  and  the  theme 
Which   he    chose,    was    herself,  her   life  story.     The 

dream 

Of  the  previous  night  was  forgotten.     The  charm 
Of  the  woman  outweighed  superstitious  alarm. 

When  the  sunlight  began  to  play  peek-a-boo 
Through  the   tunnels,  which  told   them  the  journey 

was  through, 

Roger  looked  at  his  time-piece;  the  train  for  Bay  Bend 
Left  in  just  twenty  minutes;  but  what  a  rude  end 
To  the  day's  pleasant  comradeship— rushing  away 
With  a  hurried  good-bye !     He  decided  to  stay 
Over  night  in  the  city.     He  was  not  expected 
At  home.     Mrs.  Travers  was  quite  unprotected, 
And  almost  a  stranger  in  Gotham.     He  ought 
To  see  her  safe  into  her  doorway,  he  thought. 
At  the  doorway  she  gave  him  her  hand,  with  a  smile; 
"  I  have  known  you,"  she  said,  "  such  a  brief  little  while, 

8 


iu  ftbree  iffilomen. 


Yet  you  seem  like  a  friend  of  long  standing;  I  say 
Good-bye  with  reluctance." 

"Perhaps,  then,  I  may 
Call  and  see  you  to-morrow?"  the  words  seemed  to 

fall 

Of  themselves  from  his  lips;  words  he  longed  to  recall 
When  once  uttered,  for  deep  in  his  conscience  he  knew 
That  the  one  word  for  him  to  speak  now,  was  adieu. 
The  lady's  soft,  cushion-like  hand  rested  still 
In  his  own,  and  the  contact  was  pleasant.     A  thrill 
From  the  finger  tips  quickened  his  pulses. 

"You  may 

Call  to-morrow  at  four."     The  soft  hand  slipped  away 
And  left  his  palm  lonely. 

"The  call  must  be  brief," 
He  said  to  himself,  with  a  sense  of  relief, 
As  he  ran  down  the  steps,  "for  at  five  my  train  goes." 
Yet  the  five  o'clock  train  bore  no  Roger  Montrose 
From  New  York.    Mrs.  Travers  had  asked  him  to  dine. 
A  tete-a-tete  dinner  with  beauty  and  wine, 


Ebrcc  "CQomcn.  115 


To  stir  the  man's  senses  and  deaden  his  brain. 
(The  devil  keeps  always  good  chefs  in  his  train.) 
It  was  ten  when  he  rose  for  departure.     The  room 
Seemed  a  garden  of  midsummer  fragrance  and  bloom. 
The  lights  with  their  soft  rosy  coverings  made 
A  glow  like  late  sunsets,  in  some  tropic  glade. 
The  world  seemed  afar,  with  its  dullness  and  duty, 
And  life  was  a  rapture  of  love  and  of  beauty. 

God  knows  how  it  happened;  they  never  knew  how. 
He  turned  with  a  formal  conventional  bow, 
And  some  well  chosen  words  of  politeness,  to  go. 
Her  mouth  was  a  rose  Love  had  dropped  in  the  snow 
Of  her  face.     It  smiled  up  to  him,  luscious  and  sweet. 
In  the  tip  of  each  finger  he  felt  his  heart  beat, 
Like  five  hearts  all  in  one,  as  her  hand  touched  his 

own. 

She  murmured  "good-night,"  in  a  tremulous  tone. 
White,  intense,  through  the  soft  golden   mist  which 

the  wine 
Had  cast  over  his  vision,  he  saw  her  face  shine. 


n6  Gbree  TIGlomeru 


Her  low  lidded  eyes  held  a  lion-like  glow. 

You  have  seen  sudden  storms  lash  the  ocean?     You 

know 

How  the  cyclone,  unheralded,  rises  in  wrath, 
And  leaves  devastation  and  death  in  its  path? 
So  swift,  sudden  passion  may  rise  in  its  power, 
And  ruin  and  blight  a  whole  life  in  an  hour. 
Two  unanchored  souls  in  its  maelstrom  were  whirled, 
Drawn  down  by  love's  undertow,  lost  to  the  world. 
The  dark,  solemn  billows  of  night  shut  them  in. 
Like  corpses  afloat  on  the  ocean  of  sin 
They  must  seem  to  their  true,  better  selves,  when 

again 
The  tide  drifts  them  back  to  the  notice  of  men. 


Forget  me,  dear;  forget  and  cease  to  love  me, 
I  am  not  worth  one  memory,  kind  or  true, 

Let  silent,  pale  Oblivion  spread  above  me 
Her  winding  sheet,  for  I  am  dead  to  you. 

Forget,  forget. 

Sin  has  resumed  its  interrupted  story; 

I  am  enslaved,  who  dreamed  of  being  free. 
Say  for  my  soul,  in  life's  dark  purgatory, 

One  little  prayer,  then  cease  to  think  of  me. 

Forget,  forget. 

I  ask  you  not  to  pity  or  to  pardon; 

I  ask  you  to  forget  me.      Tear  my  name 
From  out  your  heart;  the  wound  will  heal  and  harden. 

Death  does  not  dig  so  deep  a  grave  as  shame. 

Forget,  forget. 


Ubrce  "CUomen.  119 


Vlll. 
Roger's  Letter  to  Mabel 

Farewell !     I  shall  never  again  seek  your  side; 

1  will  stay  with  my  sins   and  leave  you  with  your 

pride. 

Let  the  swift  flame  of  scorn  dry  the  tears  of  regret, 
Shut  me  out  of  your  life,  lock  the  door  and  forget. 
I  shall  pass  from  your  skies  as  a  vagabond  star 
Passes  out  of  the  great  solar  system  afar 
Into  blackness  and  gloom;  while  the  heavens  smile  on, 
Scarce  knowing  the  poor  erring  creature  is  gone. 
Say  a  prayer  for  the  soul  sunk  in  sinning;  I  die 
To  you,  and  to  all  who  have  known  me.     Good-bye. 

Mabel's  Letter  to  Maurice. 

\  break  through  the  silence  of  years,  my  old  friend, 
To  beg  for  a  favor;  oh,  grant  it !     I  send 
Roger's  letter  in  confidence  to  you,  and  ask, 
In  the  name  of  our  sweet  early  friendship,  a  task, 
Which,  however  painful,  I  pray  you  perform. 
Poor  Roger !  his  bark  is  adrift  in  the  storm. 


120  tftree  tQomen. 


He  has  veered  from  the  course;  with  no  compass  of  faith 
To  point  to  the  harbor,  he  goes  to  his  death. 
You  are  giving  your  talents  and  time,  I  am  told, 
To  aiding  the  poor;  let  this  victim  of  gold 
Be  included.     His  life  has  not  learned  self-control, 
And  luxury  stunted  the  growth  of  his  soul. 
In  blindness  of  spirit  he  took  the  wrong  track, 
But  he  sees  his  great  error  and  longs  to  come  back. 
Oh,  help  me  to  reach  him  and  save  him,  Maurice. 
My  heart  yearns  to  show  him  the  infinite  peace 
Found  but  in  God's  love.     Let  us  pity,  forgive 
And  help  him,  dear  friend,  to  seek  Christ  and  to  live 
In  the  light  of  His  mercy.     I  know  you  will  do 
What  I  ask,  you  were  ever  so  loyal  and  true. 

Maurice  to  Mabel. 

Though  bitter  the  task  (why,  your  heart  must  well 

know), 

Your  wish  shall  be  ever  my  pleasure.     I  go 
On  the  search  for  the  prodigal.     Not  for  his  sake, 
But  because  you  have  asked  me,  I  willingly  make 


ttbrcc  Women. 


This  effort  to  find  him.     Sometimes,  I  contend, 

It  is  kinder  to  let  a  soul  speed  to  the  end 

Of  its  swift  downward  course  than  to  check  it  to-day, 

But  to  see  it  to-morrow  pursue  the  same  way. 

The  man  who  could  wantonly  stray  from  your  side 

Into  folly  and  sin  has  abandoned  all  pride. 

There  is  little  to  hope  from  him.     Yet,  since  his  name 

Is   the   name   you    now  bear,  I  will   save   him  from 

shame, 

God  permitting.     To  serve  and  obey  you  is  still 
Held  an  honor,  Madame,  by  Maurice  Somerville. 

Maurice  to  Mabel  Ten  Days  Later. 

The  search  for  your  husband  is  finished.     Oh,  pray 
Tear  all  love  and  all  hope  from  your  heart  ere  1  say 
What  I  must  say.     The  man  has  insulted  your  trust; 
He  has  dragged  the  most  sacred  of  ties  in  the  dust, 
And  ruined  the  fame  of  a  woman  who  wore, 
Until  now,  a  good  name.    He  has  gone.    Close  the  door 
Of  your  heart  in  his  face  if  he  seeks  to  come  back. 
The  sleuth  hounds  of  justice  were  put  on  his  track, 


122  Gbree  Women. 


And  his  life  since  he  left  you  lies  bare  to  my  gaze. 
He  sailed  yesterday  on  the  "Paris."     For  days 
Preceding  the  journey  he  lived  as  the  guest 
Of  one  Mrs.  Zoe  Travers,  who  comes  from  the  West ! 
A  widow,  young,  fair,  well-connected.     I  hear 
He  followed  her  back  to  New  York  from  the  Pier, 
And  now  he  has  taken  the  woman  abroad. 
My  letter  sounds  brutal  and  harsh.     Would  to  God 
I  might  soften  the  facts  in  some  measure;  but  no, 
In  matters  like  this  the  one  thing  is  to  know 
The  whole  truth,  and  at  once.     Though  the  pain  be 
intense 

It  pulls  less  on  the  soul  than  the  pangs  of  suspense. 

Like  a  surgeon  of  fate  with  my  pen  for  a  knife, 

1  cut  out  false  hopes  which  endanger  your  life. 

Let  the  law,  like  a  nurse,  cleanse  the  wound— there 
is  shame 

And  disgrace  for  you  now  in  the  man's  very  name. 

Though  justice  is  blindfolded,  yet  she  can  hear 

When  the  chink  of  gold  dollars  sounds  close  in  her  ear. 


Ebree  THUomen.  123 


One  needs  but  to  give  her  this  musical  hint 
To  save  you  the  sight  of  your  sorrows  in  print. 
Closed  doors,  private  hearing;  a  sentence  or  two 
In  the  journals;  then  dignified  freedom  for  you. 
When  love,  truth  and  loyalty  vanish,  the  tie 
Which  binds  man  to  woman  is  only  a  lie. 
Undo  it!  remember  at  all  times  I  stand 
As  a  friend  to  rely  on — a  serf  to  command. 


Some  women  there  are  who  would  willingly  barter 
A  queen's  diadem  for  the  crown  of  a  martyr. 
They  want  to  be  pitied,  not  envied.     To  know 
That  the  world  feels  compassion  makes  joy  of  their 

woe; 

And  the  keenest  delight  in  their  misery  lies, 
If  only  their  friends  will  look  on  with  wet  eyes. 

In  fact,  'tis  the  prevalent  weakness,  I  find, 
Of  the  sex.     As  a  mass,  women  seem  disinclined 
To  be  thought  of  as  happy;  they  like  you  to  feel 
That  their  bright  smiling  faces  are  masks  which  con 
ceal 


ftbree  TiGlomen. 


A  dead  hope  in  their  hearts.     The  strange  fancy  clings 
To  the  mind  of  the  world  that  the  rarest  of  things — 
Contentment — is  commonplace;  and,  that  to  shine 
As  something  superior,  one  must  repine, 
Or  seem  to  be  hiding  an  ache  in  the  breast. 
Yet  the  commonest  thing  in  the  world  is  unrest, 
If  you  want  to  be  really  unique,  go  along 
And  act  as  if  Fate  had  not  done  you  a  wrong, 
And  declare  you  have  had  your  deserts  in  this  life. 

The  part  of  the  patient,  neglected  young  wife 
Contained  its  attractions  for  Mabel  Montrose. 
She  was  one  of  the  women  who  live  but  to  pose 
In  the  eyes  of  their  friends;  and  she  so  loved  her  art 
That  she  really  believed  she  was  living  the  part. 
The  suffering  martyr  who  makes  no  complaint 
Was  a  role  more  important,  by  far,  than  the  saint 
Or  reformer.     As  first  leading  lady  in  grief, 
Her  pride  in  herself  found  a  certain  relief. 

The  ardent  and  love-selfish  husband  had  not 

Been  so  dear  to  her  heart,  or  so  close  to  her  thought, 


(Tbrcc  TMlomen.  125 


As  this  weak,  reckless  sinner,  who  woke  in  her  soul 
Its  dominant  wish— to  reform  and  control. 

(How  often,  alas,  the  reformers  of  earth, 
If  they  studied  their  purpose,  would  find  it  had  birth 
In  this  thirst  to  control;  in  the  poor  human  passion 
The  minds  and  the  manners  of  others  to  fashion  ! 

We  sigh  o'er  the  heathen,  we  weep  o'er  his  woes, 
While  forcing  him  into  our  creeds  and  our  clothes. 
If  he  adds  our  diseases  and  vices  as  well, 
Still,  at  least  we  have  guided  him  into  our  hell 
And  away  from  his  own  heathen  hades.     The  pleasure 
Derived  from  that  thought  but  reformers  can  measure.) 

The  thing  Mabel  Montrose  loved  best  on  this  earth 

Was  a  sinner,  and  Roger  but  doubled  his  worth 

In    her   eyes   when    he   wrote   her   that  letter.     And 

still 
When  the  last  message  came  from    Maurice  Somer- 

ville 

And  the  bald,  ugly  facts,  unsuspected,  unguessed, 
Lay  before  her,  the  woman  awoke  in  her  breast, 


i26  Cbree  TKHomen. 


And  the  patient  reformer  gave  way  to  the  wife, 

Who  was  torn  with  resentment  and  jealousy's  strife. 

Ah,  jealousy!  vain  is  the  effort  to  prove 

Your  right  in  the  world  as  the  offspring  of  love; 

For  oftener  far,  you  are  spawned  by  a  heart 

Where  Cupid  has  never  implanted  a  dart. 

Love  knows  you,  indeed,  for  you  serve  in  his  train, 

But  crowned  like  a  monarch  you  royally  reign 

Over  souls  wherein  love  is  a  stranger. 

No  thought 

Came  to  Mabel  Montrose  that  her  own  life  was  not 
Free  from  blame.     (How  few  women,  indeed,  think  of 

this 

When  they  grieve  o'er  the  ruin  of  marital  bliss!) 
She    was   shocked    and    indignant.    Pain    gave   her 

a  new 
Role    to   play   without    study;     she    missed    in    her 

cue 

And  played  badly  at  first,  was  resentful  and  cried 
Against  Fate  for  the  blow  it  had  dealt  to  her  pride 


ftbrce  "CClomen.  127 


(Though  she  called  it  her  love),  and  declared  her  life 

blighted. 

It  is  one  thing,  of  course,  for  a  wife  to  be  slighted 
For  the  average  folly  the  world  calls  a  sin, 
Such  as  races,  clubs,  games;  when  a  woman  steps  in 
The  matter  assumes  a  new  color,  and  Mabel, 
Who  dearly  loved  sinners,  at  first  seemed  unable 
To  pardon,  or  ask  God  to  pardon,  the  crime 
Of  her  husband;  an  angry  disgust  for  a  time 
Drove  all  charity  out  of  her  heart.     For  a  thief, 
For  a  forger,  a  murderer,  even,  her  grief 
Had  been  mingled  with  pity  and  pardon;  the  one 
Thing  she  could  not  forgive  was  the  thing  he  had 

done. 

It  was  wicked,  indecent,  and  so  unrefined. 
To  the  lure  of  the  senses  her  nature  was  blind, 
And  her  mantle  of  charity  never  had  been 
Wide  enough  to  quite  cover  that  one  vulgar  sin. 

In  the  letter  she  sent  to  Maurice,  though  she  said 
Little  more  than  her  thanks  for  his  kindness,  he  read 


128  £bree  Women. 


All  her  tense  nervous  feelings  between  its  few  lines. 
Though  we  study  our  words,  the  keen  reader  divines 
What  we  thought  while   we  penned   them;    thought 

odors  reveal 
What  words  not  infrequently  seek  to  conceal. 

Maurice  read  the  grief,  the  resentment,  the  shame 
Which  Mabel's  heart  held;  to  his  own  bosom  came 
Stealing  back,  masked  demurely  as  friendly  regard, 
The  hope  of  a  lover — that  hope  long  debarred. 
His  letters  grew  frequent;  their  tone,  dignified, 
Unselfish,  and  manly,  appealed  to  her  pride. 
Sweet  sympathy  mingled  with  praise  in  each  line 
(As  a  gentle  narcotic  is  stirred  into  wine), 
Soothed  pain,  stimulated  self  love,  and  restored  her 
The  pleasure  of  knowing  the  man  still  adored  her. 

Understand,  Mabel  Montrose  was  not  a  coquette, 
She  lacked  all  the 'arts  of  the  temptress;  and  yet ' 
She    was    young,   she    was    feminine;    love   to   her 

mind 
Was  extreme  admiration;  it  pleased  her  to  find 


Ebrcc  *CQomcn. 


She  was  still,  to  Maurice,  an  ideal.     A  woman 
Must  be  quite  unselfish,  almost  superhuman, 
And  full  of  strong  sympathy,  who,  in  her  soul, 
Feels  no  wrench  when  she  knows  she  has   lost  all 

control 
O'er  the  heart  of  a  man  who  once  loved  her. 

Months  passed, 

And  Mabel  accepted  her  burden  at  last 
And    went    back   to   her   world    and  its   duties.     Her 

eyes 

Seemed  to  say  when  she  looked  at  you,  "please  sym 
pathize, 

For  I  suffer,"  yet  suffering  left  not  one  trace 
On  the  slight  graceful  form  or  the  beautiful  face. 
Twas  a  sorrow  of  mind,  not  a  sorrow  of  heart, 
And  the  two  play  a  wholly  dissimilar  part 
In  the  life  of  a  woman. 

Maurice  Somerville 

Kept  his  place  as  good  friend  through  sheer  force  of 
his  will, 


But  his  heart  was  in  tumult;  he  longed  for  the  time 
When,  free  once  again  from  the  legalized  crime 
Of  her  ties,  she  might  listen  to  all  he  would  say. 
There  was  anguish,  and  doubt,  and  suspense  in  delay, 
Yet  Mabel  spoke  never  of  freedom.     At  length 
He  wrote  her,  "My  will  has  exhausted  its  strength. 
Read  the  song  I   enclose;   though   my  lips  must  be 

mute, 
The  muse  may  at  least  improvise  to  her  lute." 

Song. 

) 

There  was  a  bird  as  blithe  as  free, 

(Summer  and  sun  and  song) 
She  sang  by  the  shores  of  a  laughing  sea, 
And  oh,  but  the  world  seemed  fair  to  me, 

And  the  days  were  sweet  and  long. 

There  was  a  hunter,  a  hunter  bold, 

(Autumn  and  storm  and  sea) 
And  he  prisoned  the  bird  in  a  cage  of  gold, 
And  oh,  but  the  world  grew  dark  and  cold, 

And  the  days  were  sad  to  me. 


Cbrce  "Gaomcn.  131 


The  hunter  has  gone;  ah,  what  cares  he? 

(Winter  and  wind  and  rain) 
And  the  caged  bird  pines  for  the  air  and  the  sea, 
And  1  long  for  the  right  to  set  her  free 

To  sing  in  the  sun  again. 

The  hunter  has  gone  with  a  sneer  at  fate, 

(Spring  and  the  sea  and  the  sun) 
Let  the  bird  fly  free  to  find  her  mate, 
Ere  the  year  of  love  grow  sere  and  late. 

Sweet  ladye,  my  song  is  done. 

• 

Mabel's  Letter  to  Maurice. 

To  the  song  of  your  muse  I  have  listened.     Oh,  cease 
To  think  of  me  but  as  a  friend,  dear  Maurice. 
Once  a  wife,  a  wife  alway.     I  vowed  from  my  heart, 
"For  better,  for  worse,  until  death  do  us  part." 
No  mention  was  made  in  the  service  that  day 
Of  breaking  my  fetters  if  joy  flew  away. 
"For  better,  for  worse,"  a  vow  lightly  spoken, 
When   Fate    brings    the    "worse,"    how    lightly    'tis 
broken! 


132  Gbree  TIBlomeru 

The  "worse,"  in  my  case,  is  the  worst  fate  can  give. 

Tho'  I  shrank  from  the  blow,  I  must  bear  it  and  live, 

Not  for  self,  but  for  duty;  nor  strive  to  evade 

Fulfilling  the  promise  I  willingly  made. 

While  Roger  has  sinned,  and  his  sinning  would  be, 

In  the  eyes  of  the  law,  proof  to  render  me  free, 

It  was  God  heard  my  vows  and  the  Church  sealed  the 

bond. 

Until  one  of  us  passes  to  death's  dim  beyond, 
Though  seas  and  though  sins  may  divide  us  for  life, 
We  are  bound  to  each  other  as  husband  and  wife. 
In  God's  Court  of  Justice  divorce  is  a  word 
Which  falls  without  import  or  meaning  when  heard; 
And  the  women  who  cast  off  old  fetters  that  way, 
To   give   place  to  the  new,  on  the  great  Judgment 

Day 

Must  find,  in  the  last  summing  up,  that  they  stand 
Side  by  side,  in  God's  eyes,  with  the  Magdalene  band. 
Dear  Maurice,  be  my  brother,  my  counselor,  friend. 
We  are  lonely  without  you  and  Ruth,  at  Bay  Bend. 


Gbree  TMlomen.  133 


Come  sometimes  and  brighten  our  lives;  put  away 
The   thoughts    which   are    making   you    restless   to 
day 

And  give  me  your  strong  noble  friendship;  indeed 
Tis  a  friend  that  I  crave,  not  a  lover  I  need. 

Maurice  to  Mabel. 

You  write  like  a  woman,  and  one,  it  is  plain, 
Whose  sentiment  hangs  like  a  cloud  o'er  her  brain. 
You  gaze  through  a  sort  of  traditional  mist, 
And  behold  a  mirage  of  God's  laws  which  exist 
But  in  fancy.     God  made  but  one  law — it  is  love. 
A  law  for  the  earth,  and  the  kingdoms  above, 
A  law  for  the  woman,  a  law  for  the  man, 
The  base  and  the  spire  of  His  intricate  plan 
Of  existence.     All  evils  the  world  ever  saw 
Had  birth  in  man's  breaking  away  from  this  law. 
God  cancels  a  marriage  when  love  flies  away. 
"  Till  death  do  us  part  "  should  be  altered  to  say, 
"Till  disgust  or  indifference  part  us."     I  know 
You  never  loved  Roger,  my  heart  tells  me  so. 


134  <Tbree  Women. 


He  won  you,  I  claim,  through  a  mesmeric  spell; 

You  dreamed  of  an  Eden,  and  wakened  in  hell. 

You  pitied  his  weakness,  you  struggled  to  save  him, 

He  paid  with  a  crime  the  devotion  you  gave  him. 

And  the  blackest  of  insults  relentlessly  hurled 

At  your  poor  patient  heart  in  the  gaze  of  the  world. 

In  God's  mighty  ledger  the  stroke  of  a  pen 

Has   been    drawn    through  your   record    of  marriage. 

Though  men 

Call  you  wedded  I  hold  you  are  widowed.     Why  cling 
To  the  poor,  empty,  meaningless  form  of  a  thing— 
To  the  letter,  devoid  of  all  spirit?     God  never 
Intended  a  woman  to  hopelessly  sever 
Herself  from  all  possible  joy,  or  to  make 
True  faithfulness  suffer  for  faithlessness'  sake. 
When  I  think  of  your  wrongs,  when  I  think  of  my 

woes, 

That  black  word  divorce  like  a  bright  planet  glows  • 
In  the  skies  of  the  future.     Oh,  Mabel,  be  fair 
To  yourself  and  to  me.     For  the  years  of  despair 


Gbree  TJClomcn.  135 


1  have  suffered  you  owe  me  some  recompense,  surely. 

The  heart  that  has  worshipped  so  long  and  so  purely 

Ought  not  to  be  slighted  for  mere  sentiment. 

We  must  live  as  our  century  bids  us.     Its  bent 

Is  away  from  the  worn  ruts  of  thought.     Where  of  old 

The  life  of  a  woman  was  run  in  the  mold 

Of  man's  wishes  and  passions,  to-day  she  is  free; 

Free  to  think  and  to  act;  free  to  do  and  to  be 

What  she  pleases.     The  poor,  pining  victim  of  fate 

And  man's  cruelty,  long  ago  went  out  of  date. 

In  the  mansion  of  Life  there  were  some  things  askew, 

Which  the  strong  hand  of  Progress  has  righted.     The 

new, 

Better  plan  puts  old  notions  of  sex  on  the  shelf. 
Who  is  true  to  a  knave,  is  untrue  to  herself. 
Oh,  be  true  to  yourself,  and  have  pity  on  one 
Who  has  long  dwelt  in  shadow  and  pines  for  the  sun. 
Love,  starving  on  memories,  begs  for  one  taste 
Of   sweet  hope,  ere  the  remnant  of  youth  goes  to 

waste. 


136  ftbree  TTClomen. 


Mabel  to  Maurice. 

You  write  like  a  man  who  sees  self  as  his  goal. 
You  speak  of  your  woes — yet  my  travail  of  soul 
Seems  mere  sentiment  to  you.     Maurice,  pause  and 

think 

Of  the  black,  bitter  potion  life  gave  me  to  drink 
When  I  dreamed  of   love's  nectar.     Too  fresh  is  the 

taste 

Of  its  gall  on  my  lip  for  my  heart  in  such  haste 
To  reach  out  for  the  cup  that  is  proffered  anew. 
A  certain  respect  to  my  sorrows  is  due. 
I  am  weary  of  love  as  men  know  it.     The  calm 
Of  a  sweet,  tranquil  friendship  would  act  like  a  balm 
On  the  wounds  of  my  heart;  that  platonic  regard, 
Which  we  read  of  in  books,  or  hear  sung  by  the  bard, 
But  so  seldom  can  find  when  we  want  it.     I  thought, 
For  a  time,  you  had  conquered  mere  self,  and  had 

brought 

Such  a  friendship  to  comfort  and  rest  me.     But  no, 
That  dream,  like  full  many  another,  must  go. 


ttbree  TKflomen. 


The  love  that  is  based  on  attraction  of  sex 

Is  a  love    that  has    brought  me  but    sorrow.     Why 

vex 
My  poor  soul  with  the  same   thing  again?     If   you 

love 

With  a  higher  emotion,  you  know  how  to  prove 
And  sustain  the  assertion  by  conduct.     Maurice, 
Love  must  rise  above  passion,  to  infinite  peace 
And  serenity,  ere  it  is  love,  to  my  mind. 
For  the  women  of  earth,  in  the  ranks  of  mankind 
There  are  too  many  lovers  and  not  enough  friends. 
'Tis  the  friend  who  protects,  'tis  the  lover  who  rends. 
He  who  can  be  a  friend  while  he  would  be  a  lover 
Is  the  rarest  and  greatest  of  souls  to  discover. 
Have  1  found,  dear  Maurice,  such  a  treasure  in  you  ? 
If  not,  1  must  say  with  this  letter— adieu. 

As  he  finished  the  letter  there  seemed  but  one  phrase 
To  the  heart  of  the  reader.     It  shone  on  his  gaze 
Bright  with  promise  and  hope.     "  Too  fresh  is  the  taste 
Of  its  gall  on  my  Up  for  my  heart  in  such  haste 


138  ZTbree  "CClomen. 


To  reach  out  for  the  cup  that  is  offered  anew." 
"  In  such  haste."     Ah,  how  hope  into  certainty  grew 
As  he  read  and  re-read  that  one  sentence.     "Let  fate 
Take  the  whole  thing   in   charge,  I  can  wait — I  can 

wait. 
I  have  lived  through  the  night;  though  the  dawn  may 

be  gray 

And  belated,  it  heralds  the  coming  of  day." 
So  he  talked  with  himself,  and  grew  happy  at  last. 
The  five  hopeless  years  of  his  sorrow  were  cast 
Like  a  nightmare  behind  him.    He  walked  once  again 
With  a  joy  in  his  personal  life,  among  men. 
There  seemed  to  be  always  a  smile  on  his  lip, 
For  he  felt  like  a  man  on  the  deck  of  a  ship 
Who  has  sailed  through  strange  seas  with  a  mutinous 

crew, 
And  now  in  the  distance  sights  land  just  in  view. 

The  house  at  Bay  Bend  was  re-opened.     Once  more, 
Where  the  waves  of  the  Sound  wash  the  New  England 
shore, 


ftbree  TlClomen.  139 


Walked   Maurice;  and  beside  him,  young  hope,  with 

the  tip 

Of  his  fair  rosy  fingers  pressed  hard  on  his  lip, 
Urging  silence.     If  Mabel  Montrose  saw  the  boy 
With  the  pursed  prudent  mouth  and  the  eyes  full  of  joy 
She  said  nothing.     Grave,  dignified  (Ah,  but  so  fair!), 
There  was  naught  in  her  modest  and  womanly  air 
To  feed  or  encourage  such  hope.     Yet  love  grew 
Like  an  air  plant,  with  only  the  night  and  the  dew 
To  sustain  it;   while  Mabel  rejoiced  in  the  friend, 
Who,  in  spite  of  himself,  had  come  back  to  Bay  Bend, 
Yielding  all  to  her  wishes.     Such  people,  alone, 
Who  gracefully  gave  up  their  plans  for  her  own, 
Were  congenial  to  Mabel.     Though  looking  the  sweet, 
Fragile  creature,  with  feminine  virtues  replete, 
Her  nature  was  stubborn.     Beneath  that  fair  brow 
Lurked  an  obstinate  purpose  to  make  others  bow 
To  herself  in  small  matters.    She  fully  believed 
She  was  right,  always  right;   and   her  friends  were 

deceived, 


"Gdometu 


As  a  rule,  into  thinking  the  same;  for  her  eyes 
Held  a  look  of  such  innocent  grief  and  surprise 
When  her  will  was  opposed,  that  one  felt  her  misused, 
And  retired  from  the  field  of  dispute,  self-accused. 

The  days,  like  glad  children,  went  hurrying  out 
From  the  schoolhouse  of   time;    months  pursued  the 

same  route 

More  sedately;  a  year,  then  two  years,  passed  away, 
Yet  hope,  unimpaired,  in  the  lover's  heart  lay, 
As  a  gem  in  the  bed  of  a  river  might  lie, 
Unharmed  and  unmoved  while  its  waters  ran  by. 
His  toil  for  the  poor  still  continued,  but  not 
With  that  fervor  of  zeal  which  a  dominant  thought 
Lends   to   labor.     Fair  love   gilded    dreams  filled  his 

mind, 

While  the  corners  were  left  for  his  suffering  kind. 
He  was  sorry  for  sorrow;  but  love  made  him  glad, 
And  nothing  in  life  now  seemed  hopeless  or  sad. 
His  tete-a-tete  visits  with  Mabel  were  rare; 
She  ordered  her  life  with  such  prudence  and  care 


Sbrec  Tidomen.  141 


Lest  her  white  name  be  soiled   by  the  gossips.     And 

yet, 

Though  his  heart,  like  a  steed  checked  too  closely, 

would  fret 

Sometimes  at  these  creed-imposed  fetters,  he  felt 
Keen  delight  in  her  nearness;  in  knowing  she  dwelt 
Within  view  of  his  high  turret  window.     Each  day 
Which  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  her,  love  laid  away 
As  a  poem  in  life's  precious  folio.     Night 
Held    her   face  like  a  picture,  dream-framed    for  his 

sight. 

So  he  fed  on  the  crumbs  from  love's  table,  the  while 
Fate  sat  looking  on  with  a  cynical  smile. 


Cbrec 


143 


IX. 
SONGS  FROM  THE  TURRET. 


In  the  day  my  thoughts  are  tender 

When  I  muse  on  my  ladye   fair. 
There  is  never  one  to  offend  her, 

For  each  is  pure  as  a  prayer. 
They  float  like  spirits  above  her, 

About  her  and  always  near; 
And  they  scarce  dare  sigh  that  they  love  her, 

Because  she  would  blush  to  hear. 

But  in  dreams  my  thoughts  grow  bolder; 

And  close  to  my  lips  of  fire, 
I  reach  out  my  arms  and  enfold  her, 

My  ladye,  my  heart's  desire. 
And  she  who,  in  earthly  places, 

Seems  cold  as  the  stars  above, 
Unmasks  in  those  fair  dream  spaces 

And  gives  me  love  for  love. 


144  Obree  Women. 


Oh  day,  with  your  thoughts  of  duty 

Cross  over  the  sunset  streams, 
And  give  me  the  night  of  beauty 

And  love  in  the  Land  of  Dreams. 
For  there  in  the  mystic,  shady, 

Fair  isle  of  the  Slumber  Sea, 
I  read  the  heart  of  my  ladye 

That  here  she  hides  from  me. 


Cbrcc  lUomcn.  i45 


II. 

Some  day,  some  beauteous  day, 

Joy  will  come  back  again. 
Sorrow  must  fly  away. 

Hope,  on  her  harp  will  play 

The  old  inspiring  strain 
Some  day,  some  beauteous  day. 

Through  the  long  hours  I  say, 

"The  night  must  fade  and  wane, 
Sorrow  must  fly  away." 

The  morn's  bewildering  ray 

Shall  pierce  the  night  of  rain, 
Some  day,  some  beauteous  day. 

Autumn  shall  bloom  like  May, 

Delight  shall  spring  from  pain; 
Sorrow  must  fly  away. 

Though  on  my  life,  grief's  gray 
Bleak  shadow  long  hath  lain, 

Some  day,  some  beauteous  day, 
Sorrow  must  fly  away. 


ilbrcc  llUomcn.  147 


III. 

When  love  is  lost,  the  day  sets  toward  the  night. 
Albeit  the  morning  sun  may  still  he  bright, 
And  not  one  cloud  ship  sails  across  the  sky. 
Yet  from  the  places  where  it  used  to  lie, 
Gone  is  the  lustrous  glory  of  the  light. 

No  splendor  rests  on  any  mountain  height, 

No  scene  spreads  fair,  and  beauteous,  to  the  sight 

All,  all  seems  dull  and  dreary  to  the  eye, 

When  love  is  lost. 

Love  lends  to  life  its  grandeur  and  its  might, 
Love  goes,  and  leaves  behind  it  gloom  and  blight. 
Like  ghosts  of  time  the  pallid  hours  drag  by, 
And  grief's  one  happy  thought  is  that  we  die. 
Ah  !  what  can  recompense  us  for  its  flight, 

When  love  is  lost. 


Gbrec  tdomcn.  149 


IV. 

Life  is  a  ponderous  lesson  book,  and  Fate 
The  teacher.     When  I  came  to  love's  fair  leaf 

My  teacher  turned  the  page  and  bade  me  wait. 
"  Learn  first,"  she  said,  'Move's  grief"; 

And  o'er  and  o'er  through  many  a  long  to-morrow 
She  kept  me  conning  that  sad  page  of  sorrow. 

Cruel  the  task;  and  yet  it  was  not  vain. 

Now  the  great  book  of  life  I  know  by  heart. 
In  that  one  lesson  of  love's  loss  and  pain 

Fate  doth  the  whole  impart. 
For,  by  the  depths  of  woe,  the  mind  can  measure 

The  beauteous  unsealed  summits  of  love's  pleasure. 

Now,  with  the  book  of  life  upon  her  knee, 
Fate  sits  !  the  unread  page  of  love's  delight 

By  her  firm  hand  is  half  concealed  from  me, 
And  half  revealed  to  sight. 

Ah  Fate !  be  kind  !  so  well  I  learned  love's  sorrow, 
Give  me  its  full  delight  to  learn  to-morrow. 


Cbrce  IQomen. 


V. 

If  1  were  a  rain  drop,  and  you  were  a  leaf, 
I  would  burst  from  the  cloud  above  you 

And  lie  on  your  breast  in  a  rapture  of  rest, 
And  love  you,  love  you,  love  you. 

If  1  were  a  brown  bee,  and  you  were  a  rose, 
1  would  fly  to  you,  love,  nor  miss  you; 

1  would  sip  and  sip  from  your  nectared  lip, 
And  kiss  you,  kiss  you,  kiss  you. 

If  1  were  a  doe,  dear,  and  you  were  a  brook, 
Ah,  what  would  1  do  then,  think  you? 

1  would  kneel  by  your  bank,  in  the  grasses  dank, 
And  drink  you,  drink  you,  drink  you. 


Cbrcc  XUomcn.  153 


VI. 

Time  owes  me  such  a  heavy  debt, 
How  can  he  ever  make  things  right  ? 

For  suns  that  with  no  promise  set 
To  help  me  greet  the  morning  light, 

For  dreams  that  no  fruition  met, 
For  joys  that  passed  from  bud  to  blight, 

Time  owes  me  such  a  heavy  debt; 
How  can  he  ever  make  things  right? 

For  passions  balked,  with  strain  and  fret 
Of  hopes  delayed,  or  perished  quite, 

For  kisses  that  1  did  not  get 
On  many  a  love  impelling  night, 

Time  owes  me  such  a  heavy  debt; 
How  can  he  ever  make  things  right? 


Sbtce  Ittaomen.  155 


VII. 

As  the  king  bird  feeds  on  the  heart  of  the  bee, 
So  would  I  feed  on  the  sweets  of  thee. 

As  the  south  wind  kisses  the  leaf  at  will, 
From  the  leaf  of  thy  lips  I  would  drink  my  fill. 

As  the  sun  pries  into  the  heart  of  a  rose, 

1  would  pry  in  thy  heart,  and  its  thoughts  disclose. 

As  a  dewdrop  mirrors  the  loving  sky, 
I  would  see  myself  in  thy  tear  wet  eye 

As  the  deep  night  shelters  the  day  in  its  arms, 
1  would  hide  thee,  dear,  from  the  world's  alarms. 


Gbrcc  'CClomcn.  157 


VIII. 

Now  do  I  know  how  Paradise  doth  seem, 

Now  do  I  know  the  deep  red  depths  of  hell. 

Swift  from  those  fair  supernal  heights  I  fell 

To  burning  flames  of  hades,  in  a  dream. 

Methought  my  ladye  rested  by  a  stream 

Which  rippled  through  the  verdure  of  a  dell. 

She  lay  like  Eve;  dear  God,  I  dare  not  tell 

Of  her  perfections;  of  the  glow  and  gleam 

Of  tinted  flesh,  and  undulating  hair, 

Of  sudden  thigh,  and  sweetly  rounded  breast. 

Then,  like  a  cloud,  he  came,  from  God  knows  where, 

And  on  her  eyes  and  mouth  mad  kisses  pressed. 

I  fell,  and  fell,  through  leagues  of  scorching  space, 

And  always  saw  his  lips  upon  her  face. 


Cbrcc  "Cdomcn.  159 


IX. 

Love  is  the  source  of  all  supreme  delight, 

Love  is  the  bitter  fountain  of  despair; 
Who  follows  Love  shall  stand  upon  the  height, 

Yet  through  the  darkest  depths,  Love,  too,  leads  there. 

Courage  needs  he  who  would  with  bold  Love  fare, 
Let  him  set  forth  with  all  his  strength  bedight; 

Yet  in  his  heart  this  song  to  banish  care— 
"Love  is  the  source  of  all  supreme  delight." 

And  he  must  sing  this  song  both  day  and  night, 
Though  he  be  led  down  shadowy  pathways  where 

Black  waters  moan,  through  valleys  struck  with  blight, 
"  Love  is  the  bitter  fountain  of  despair." 

Let  him  be  brave,  and  bravely  let  him  dare 
Whate'er  betide,  and  feel  no  coward  fright. 

Who  shares  the  worst,  the  best  deserves  to  share; 
Who  follows  Love  shall  stand  upon  the  height. 

Ah!  sweet  is  peace  to  those  who  faced  the  fight, 
And  bright  the  crown  those  faithful  ones  shall  wear, 


160  ftbree  Women. 


Who  whispered,  when  the  shadows  veiled  their  sight, 
"Yet  through  the  darkest  depths,  Love,  too,  leads 
there." 

To  hearts  that  best  know  Love,  his  dark  is  fair, 
His  sorrow  gladness,  and  his  wrong  is  right. 

All  joys  lie  waiting  on  his  winding  stair; 
All  ways,  all  paths  of  Love  lead  to  the  light. 
Love  is  the  source. 


Cbrcc  XUomcn.  161 


X. 

My  ladye's  eyes  are  wishing  wells, 
Wherein  I  gaze  with  silent  yearning; 

Deep  in  their  depths  my  future  dwells. 

My  ladye's  eyes  are  wishing  wells, 

But  not  one  sign  my  fate  foretells, 
While  my  poor  heart  with  love  is  burning. 

My  ladye's  eyes  are  wishing  wells, 
Wherein  I  gaze  with  silent  yearning. 


Cbree  Momen.  163 


XL 

Three  things  my  ladye  seemeth  like  to  me— 
She  seems  like  moonlight  on  a  waveless  sea. 

And  like  the  delicate  fragrance,  which  exhales, 
When  Day's  warm  garments  brush  the  dewy  vales. 

And  when  my  heart  grows  weary  of  earth's  sound, 
She  seems  like  silence — restful  and  profound. 


Gbree  Idomcn.  165 


XII. 

The  moon  flower,  grown  from  a  slip  so  slender, 

Has  burst  in  a  star  bloom,  full  and  white. 
The  air  is  filled  with  a  perfume  tender, 

The  breath  that  blows  from  that  garden  height. 

Yet  moments  lag  that  should  take  their  flight 
On  wings,  like  the  wings  of  a  homing  dove, 

And  the  world  goes  wrong  where  it  should  go  right, 
For  this  is  a  night  that  is  lost  to  love. 

Again,  like  a  queen,  who  would  rashly  spend  her 

Dower  of  wealth  in  a  single  night, 
The  proud  moon  seems,  on  her  track  of  splendor, 

Enriching  the  world  with  her  silver  light. 

She  flings  on  the  crest  of  each  billow  a  bright 
Pure  gem,  from  the  casket  of  jewels  above. 

But  1  sigh  as  1  gaze  on  the  glorious  sight, 
"This  is  a  night  that  is  lost  to  love." 

Oh,  I  would  that  the  moon  might  never  wend  her 
Way  through  the  skies  in  royal  might, 


166  Gbree  Momem 


Till  the  haughty  heart  of  my  lady  surrender 
And  the  faithful  love  of  a  life  requite. 
For  the  moon  was  made  for  a  lover's  delight; 

And  grayer  than  gloom  must  its  luster  prove 
To  the  soul  that  sighs  under  sorrow's  blight, 

"This  is  a  night  that  is  lost  to  love." 

L'Enuoi. 

Fate,  have  pity  upon  my  plight, 

And  the  heart  of  my  lady  to  mercy  move. 
For  the  saddest  words  that  youth  can  write 

Are,  "This  is  a  night  that  is  lost  to  love." 


{Tbree  Women.  167 


XIII. 

As  the  waves  of  the  outgoing  sea 

Leave  the  rocks  and  the  drift  wood  bare, 

When  your  thoughts  are  for  others  than  me, 
My  heart  is  the  strand  of  despair- 
Beloved, 
Where  bleak  suns  glare, 

And  Joy,  like  a  desolate  mourner,  gropes 

In  the  wrecks  of  broken  hopes. 

As  the  incoming  waves  of  the  sea, 
The  rocks  and  the  sandbar  hide, 

When  your  thoughts  flow  back  to  me, 
My  heart  leaps  up  on  the  tide- 
Beloved, 
Where  my  glad  hopes  ride 

With  joy  at  the  wheel,  and  the  sun  above 

In  a  glorious  sky  of  love. 


Cbrce  TSUomen.  169 


XIV. 

There  was  a  bard  all  in  the  olden  time, 

When  bards  were  men  to  whom  the  world  gave  ear, 
And  song  an  art  the  great  gods  deemed  sublime, 

Who  sought  to  make  his  willful  lady  hear 
By  weaving  strange  new  melodies  of  rhyme, 

Which  voiced  his  love,  his  sorrow,  and  his  fear. 

Sweetheart,  my  soul  is  heavy  now  with  fear, 
Lest  thou  shalt  frown  upon  me  for  all  time. 
Ah  !  would  that  I  had  skill  to  weave  a  rhyme 

Worthy  to  win  the  favor  of  thine  ear. 

Tho'  all  the  world  were  deaf,  if  thou  didst  hear 
And  smile,  my  song  would  seem  to  me  sublime. 

But  ah  !  too  vast,  too  awful  and  sublime, 
Is  my  great  passion,  born  of  grief  and  fear, 
To  clothe  in  verse.     Why,  if  the  world  could  hear 

And  understand  my  love,  then  for  all  time, 
So  long  as  there  was  sound  or  listening  ear, 

All  space  would  ring  and  echo  with  my  rhyme. 


170  Cbree  TKHomem 


Such  passion  seems  belittled  by  a  rhyme- 
It  needs  the  voice  of  nature.     The  sublime, 

Loud  thunder  crash,  that  hurts  the  startled  ear, 
And  stirs  the  heart  with  awe,  akin  to  fear, 
The  weird,  wild  winds  of  equinoctial  time; 

These  voices  tell  my  love,  wouldst  thou  but  hear. 

And  listening  at  the  flood  tides,  thou  might'st  hear 
The  love  1  bear  thee  surging  through  the  rhyme 
Of  breaking  billows,  many  a  moon  full  time. 
Why,  I  have  heard  thee  call  the  sea  sublime, 
When  every  wave  but  voiced  the  anguished  fear 
Of  my  man's  heart  to  thy  unconscious  ear. 

Vain,  then,  the  hope  that  thou  wilt  lend  thine  ear 
To  any  song  of  mine,  or  deign  to  hear 
My  lays  of  longing  or  my  strains  of  fear. 
Vain  is  the  hope  to  weave  for  thee  a  rhyme, 
Or  sweet  or  sad,  or  subtle  or  sublime, 
Which  wins  thy  gracious  favor  for  all  time. 

Oh,  cruel  time!  my  lady  will  not  hear, 

Though  in  her  ear  love  sings  a  song  sublime, 
And  my  sad  rhyme  ends,  like  my  love,  in  fear. 


Bright  like  the  comforting  blaze  on  the  hearth, 
Sweet  like  the  blooms  on  the  young  apple  tree, 
Fragrant  with  promise  of  fruit  yet  to  be 

Are  the  home-keeping  maidens  of  earth. 

Better  and  greater  than  talent  is  worth, 
And  where  is  the  glory  of  brush  or  of  pen 
Like  the  glory  of  mothers  and  molders  of  men — 

The  home-keeping  women  of  earth  ? 

Crowned  since  the  great  solar  system  had  birth, 
They  reign  unsurpassed  in  their  beautiful  sphere. 
They  are  queens  who  can  look  in  God's  face  without  fear 

The  home-keeping  women  of  earth. 


Cbrce  Tldomen.  173 


X. 

A  man  whose  mere  name  was  submerged  in  the  sea 

Of  letters  which  followed  it,  B.  A.,  M.  D., 

And   Minerva  knows  what  else,  held  forth  at  Belle- 

vue 

On  what  he  believed  some  discovery  new 
In  medical  Science  (though,  mayhap,  a  truth 
That  was  old  in  Confucius'  earliest  youth), 
And  a  bevy  of  bright  women  students  sat  near, 
Absorbing  his  wisdom  with  eye  and  with  ear. 

Close  by,  lay  the  corpse  of  a  man,  half  in  view. 
Dear  shades  of  our  dead  and  gone  grandmamas  !  you 
Whose  modesty  hung  out  red  flags  on  each  cheek, 
Danger   signals — if  some    luckless   boor   chanced    to 

speak 

The  words  'Meg"  or  "liver"  before  you,  1  think 
Your  gray  ashes,  even,  would  deepen  to  pink 
Should  your  ghost  happen  into  a  clinic  or  college 
Where  your  granddaughters  congregate   seeking   for 
knowledge. 


i?4  Gbree  Tldomen. 


Forced  to  listen  to  what  they  are  eager  to  hear, 
No  doubt  you  would  fancy  the  world  out  of  gear, 
And  deem  modesty  dead,  with  last  century  belles. 

Honored   ghosts,    you    would    err !   for   true   modesty 

dwells 
In  the  same  breast  with   knowledge,  and    takes    no 

offense. 
Truth  never  harmed  anything  yet  but  pretense. 

There  are  fashions  in  modesty;  what  in  your  time 

Had  been  deemed  little  less  than  an  absolute  crime 

In  matters  of  dress,  or  behavior,  to-day 

Is  the  custom.     And  however  daring  you  may 

Deem  our  manners-  and   modes,  yet,  were  facts  fully 

known, 
Our  morals  compare  very  well  with  your  own. 

The  women  composing  the  class  at  Bellevue 

Were  young — under  thirty;  some  pleasing  to  view,. 

Some   plain.     Roman  features  prevailed,  with  brown 

hair, 
But  one  was  so  feminine,  soft  eyed  and  fair 


Cbrcc  Women.  175 


That  she  seemed  out  of  place  in  a  clinic,  as  though 
A  rose  in  a  vegetable  garden  should  grow. 
While  her  face  was  intelligent,  none  would  avow 
That  cold  intellect  dwelt  on  that  fair  oval  brow, 
Or  looked   out  of  the   depths  of   those  golden  gray 

eyes, 

The  color  of  smoke  against  clear,  sunny  skies. 
Twas  a  warm  woman  face,  made  for  fireside  nooks, 
Not  a  face  to  be  bent  over  medical  books. 
There  was  nothing  aggressive  in  features  or  form; 
She  was  meant  for  still  harbors,  and  not  for  the  storm 
And  the  strife  of  rude  waters.    The  swell  of  her  breast 
Suggested  love's  sweet  downy  cushion  of  rest 
For   the   cheeks   of   fair   children.      Her  plump   little 

hands, 

Seemed  fashioned  for  sewing  small  gussets  and  bands 
And  fussing  with  laces  and  ribbons,  instead 
Of  cutting  cold  flesh  and  dissecting  the  dead. 
And  yet,  as  a  student  she  ranked  with  the  first. 
But  conscience,  in  labor  once  chosen,  not  thirst 


176  Ubree  Women. 


For  such  knowledge,  had  spurred  her  to  action.    This 

day 

She  seemed  inattentive,  her  air  was  distrait, 
As  if  thought  had  slipped  free  of  the  bridle  and  rein 
And  galloped  away  over  memory's  plain. 

It  was  true;  it  was  strange,  too,  but  there  in  the  class, 
While  the  learned  man  was  talking,  her  mind  seemed 

to  pass 

Out,  away  from  the  clinic,  away  from  the  town, 
To  a  New  England  midsummer  garden  close  down 
By  the  salt  water's  edge;  and  she  felt  the  wind  blowing 
Among  her  loose  locks  as  she  leaned  o'er  her  sewing, 
While  the  voice  of  a  man  stirred  her  heart  into  song. 
She  was  called  from  her  dream  by  the  clang  of  the 

gong 

Which  foretells  an  arrival  at  Bellevue.     The  class 
Was  dismissed  for  the  day.     In  the  hall,  forced  to  pass 
By  the  stretcher  (low  brougham  of  misery),  she 
Whom  we  know  was  Ruth  Somerville,  looked  down 

to  see 


Cbrce  XUomen.  177 


The  white,  haggard  face  of  the  man  whom  her  mind 
Had  strayed  off  in  a  waking  day  vision  to  find 
But  a  moment  before. 

The  wild,  passionate  cry 

Which  arose  in  her  heart,  was  held  back,  nor  passed  by 
The  white  sentinels  set  on  her  lip.     The  serene, 
Lofty   look  which  deep  feeling  controlled  gives  the 

mien 
Marked  her   air   as   she   turned   to  the  surgeon   and 

said: 

"This  man  lying  here,  either  dying  or  dead, 
Was  a  classmate,  at  Yale,  of  my  brother's;  my  friend 
Is  his  wife.     Let  me  stay  by  his  side  to  the  end, 
If  the  end  has  not  come." 

It  was  Roger  Montrose, 
Grown  old  with  his  sins  and  grown  gaunt  with  his 

woes, 
Lying  low  in  his  manhood  before  her. 

His  eyes 
Opened  slowly;  a  wondering  look  of  surprise 


178  Gbree  Women, 


Met  the  soft  orbs  above  him.     "Ruth — Ruth  Somer- 

ville," 
He  said  feebly.    "Tell  Mabel" — then  sighed,  and  was 

still. 

But  it  was  not  the  stillness  of  death.     There  was  life 
In  that  turbulent  heart  yet;  that  heart  torn  with  strife, 
Scarred  with  passion,  and  wracked  by  the  pangs  of 

remorse. 

"Death's  swift  leaden  messenger  missed  in  its  course 
By  the  breadth  of  a  hair,"  said  the  surgeon.     "  The  ball 
Lies  in  there  by  the  shoulder.     His  chances  are  small 
For  a  new  start  on  earth.     While  a  sober  man  might 
Hope  to  conquer  grim  Death  in  this  hand-to-hand  fight, 
Here  old  Alcohol  stands  as  Death's  second,  fierce,  cruel, 
And  stronger  than  Life's  one  aid,  skill,  in  the  duel. 
You  tell  me  the  wife  of  this  man  is  your  friend? 
He  was  shot  by  a  woman,  who  then  made  an  end 
Of  her  own  life.     I  hope  it  was  not  -  "Oh,  no — 

no, 
Not  his  wife,"  Ruth  replied,  "for  he  left  her  to  go 


Cbrcc  Women.  179 


With  this  other,  his  victim — poor  creature — they  say 
She  was  good  till  she  met  him.     Ah!  what  a  black  way 
For  love's  rose  scented  path  to  lead  down  to,  and  end. 
God  pity  her,  pity  her."     "Her,  not  your  friend  ? 
Not  his  wife?" 

There  was  gentle  reproof  in  the  tone 
Of  the  staid  old  physician.     Ruth's  eyes  met  his  own 
In  brave,  silent  warfare;  the  blue  and  the  gray 
Again  faced  each  other  in  battle  array. 

Ruth: 

I  pity  the  woman  who  suffered.     His  wife 

Goes  her  way  well  contented.     Love  was  in  her  life 

But  an  incident;  while  to  this  other,  dear  God, 

It  was  all;  on  what  sharp,  burning  ploughshares  she 

trod, 
Down  what  chasms  she  leaped,  how  she  tossed  the 

whole  world, 

Like  a  dead  rose,  behind  her,  to  lie  and  be  whirled 
In  the  maelstrom  of  love  for  one  moment.     Ah,  brief 
Is  the  rapture  such  souls  find,  and  long  is  their  grief, 


180  Gbree  IQomen. 


Black  their  sin,  blurred  their  record,  and  scarlet  their 

shame. 

And  yet  when  1  think  of  them,  sorrow,  not  blame, 
Stirs  my  being.     Blind  passion  is  only  the  weed 
Of  fair,  beautiful  love.     Both  are  sprung  from  one 

seed; 

One  grows  wild,  one  is  trained  and  directed.    Condemn 
The  hand  that  neglected — but  ah  !  pity  them. 

Surgeon  : 

You  speak  with  much  feeling.    But  now,  if  the  friends 

Of  this  man  are  to  see  him  before  his  life  ends 

I  recommend  action  on  your  part.     His  stay 

On  this  planet,  I  fear,  will  be  finished  to-day. 

A  man  who  neglects  and  abuses  his  wife, 

Who  gives  her  at  best  but  the  dregs  of  his  life, 

In  the  hey  day  of  health,  when  he's  drained  his  last 

cup 

Has  a  fashion  of  wanting  to  settle  things  up. 
Craves  forgiveness,  and  hopes  with  a  few  final  tears 
To  wash  out  the  sins  and  the  insults  of  years. 


Cbree  THaomen.  181 


Call  your  friend;  bid  her  hasten,  lest  lips  that  are  dumb, 
Having  wasted  life's  feast,  shall   refuse  her  death's 
crumb. 

Ruth  : 

There  are  souls  to  whom  crumbs  are  sufficient,  at  least 
They  seem  not  to  value  love's  opulent  feast. 
They  neglect,  they  ignore,  they  abuse,  or  destroy 
What  to  some  poor  starved  life  had  been  earth's  rarest 

joy. 

Tis  a  curious  fact  that  love's  banqueting  table 
Full  often  is  spread  for  the  guest  the  least  able 
To  do  the  feast  justice.     The  gods  take  delight 
In  offering  crusts  to  the  starved  appetite 
And  rich  fruits,  to  the  sated  or  sickly. 

The  eyes 

Of  the  surgeon  were  fixed  on  Ruth's  face  with  a  wise 
Knowing  look  in  their  depths,  and  he  said  to  himself, 
"There's  a  mystery  here  which  young  Cupid,  sly  elf, 
Could  account  for.     I  judge  by  her  voice  and  her  face 
That  the  wife  of  this  man  holds  no  very  warm  place 


182  Gbree  Momcn, 


In  Miss  Somerville's  heart,  though  she  names  her  as 

friend. 

Ah,  full  many  a  drama  has  come  to  an  end 
'Neath  the  walls  of  Bellevue,  and  the  curtain  will  tall 
On  one  actor  to-night;  though  the  audience  call, 
He  will  make  no  response,  once  he  passes  from  view, 
For  Death  is  the  prompter  who  gives  him  the  cue." 

The  wisest  minds  err.     When  a  clergyman  tries 
To  tell  a  man  where  he  will  go  when  he  dies, 
Or  when  a  physician  makes  bold  to  aver 
Just  the  length  of  a  life  here,  both  usually  err. 
So  it  is  not  surprising  that  Roger,  at  dawn, 
Sat  propped  up  by  pillows,  still  haggard  and  wan, 
But  seemingly  stronger,  and  eager  to  tell 
His  story  to  Ruth  ere  the  death  shadows  fell. 

"  If  I  go  before  Mabel  can  reach  me,"  he  sighed, 
"Tell   her   this:    that   my  heart   was   all  hers  when 

I  died, 

Was  all  hers  while  I  lived.     Ah!  I  see  how  you  start, 
But  that  other — God  pity  her  -not  with  my  heart, 


Cbrec  "Cdomen.  183 


But  my  sensual  senses  1  loved  her.     The  fire 
Of  her  glance  blinded  men  to  all  things  save  desire. 
It  called  to  the  beast  chained  within  us.     Her  lips 
Held  the  nectar  that  makes  a  man  mad  when  he  sips. 
Her  touch  was  delirium.     In  the  fierce  joys 
Of  her  kisses  there  lurked  the  fell  curse  which  de 
stroys 

All  such  rapture — satiety.     When  passion  dies, 
And  the  mind  finds  no  pleasure,  the  spirit  no  ties 
To  replace  it,  disgust  digs  its  grave.     Ay  !  disgust 
Is  ever  the  sexton  who  buries  dead  lust. 

When  two  people  wander  from  virtue's  straight  track, 
One  always  grows  weary  and  longs  to  go  back. 
Well,  1  wearied.     God  knows  how  I  struggled  to  hide 
The  truth  from  the  poor,  erring  soul  at  my  side. 
And  God  knows  how  I  hated  my  life  when  I  first 
Found  that  passion's  mad  potion   had  palled  on  my 

thirst. 

Once  false  to  my  virtues,  now  false  to  my  sin, 
1  seemed  less  to  myself  than  1  ever  had  been. 


184  Gbree  Women. 


We  parted.     This  bullet  hole  here  in  my  breast 

Proceeds  with  the  story  and  tells  you  the  rest. 

She  smiled,  I  remember,  in  saying  adieu: 

Then  two  swift,  sharp  reports — and  I  woke  in  Belle- 

vue 
With  one  ball  in  my  breast. 

Ruth: 

And  the  other  in  hers. 

No  more  with  wild  sorrow  that  sad  bosom  stirs. 
She  is  dead,  sir,  the  woman  you  led  to  her  ruin. 

Roger: 

The  woman  led  me.     Ah  !  not  all  the  undoing 
In  these  matters  lies  at  man's  door.     In  the  mind 
Of  full  many  a  so-called  chaste  woman  we  find 
Unchaste   longings.     The  world    heaps    on    man    its 

abuse 

When  he  woos  without  wedding;  yet  women  seduce 
And  betray  us;  they  lure  us  and  lead  us  to  shame; 
As   they   share   in   the   sin,   let   them   share   in   the 

blame. 


Cbrce  IKlomen.  185 


Ruth: 
Hush  !  the  woman  is  dead. 

Roger: 

And  I  dying.     But  truth 

Is  not  changed  by  the  death  of  two  people  !    Oh,  Ruth, 
Be  just  ere  you  judge  me  !  the  death  of  my  child 
Half   unbalanced    my    reason;    weak,    wretched    and 

wild 

With  drink  and  with  sorrows,  the  devil's  own  chance 
Flung  me  down  by  the  side  of  a  woman  whose  glance 
Was  an  opiate,  lulling  the  conscience.     1  fell, 
With  the  woman  who  tempted  me,  down  to  dark  hell. 
In  the  honey  of  sin  hides  the  sting  of  the  bee. 
The  honey  soon  sated— the  sting  stayed  with  me. 
Like  a  damned  soul  I  looked  from  my  Hades,  above 
To  the  world  I  had  left,  and  I  craved  the  pure  love 
That  but  late  had  seemed  cold,  unresponsive.      Her 

eyes, 
Mabel's  eyes,  shone  in   dreams  from  the  far  distant 

skies 


1 86  Gbree  Women. 


Of  the  lost  world  of  goodness  and  virtue.     Like  one 
Who  is  burning  with  thirst  'neath  a  hot  desert  sun, 
I  longed  for  her  kiss,  cool,  reluctant,  but  pure. 
Ah!  man's  love  for  good  women  alone  can  endure, 
For  virtue  is  God,  the  Eternal.     The  rest 
Is  but  chaos.     The  worst  must  give  way  to  the  best. 
Tell  Mabel— Ruth,  Ruth,  she  is  here,  oh  thank  God. 

She  stood,  like  a  violet  sprung  from  the  sod, 
By  his  bedside;  pale,  beautiful,  dewy  with  tears. 
The  spectre  of  death  bridged  the  chasm  of  years: 
He  sighed  on  her  bosom.     "  Forgive,  oh  forgive!  " 
She  kissed  his  pale  forehead  and  answered  him :  "  Live, 
Live,  my  husband!  oh  plead  with  the  angels  to  stay 
Until    God,   too,   has   pardoned    your   sins.     Let    us 
pray." 

Ruth    slipped    from    the    room    all    unnoticed.     She 

seemed 

Like  a  sleeper  who  wakens  and  knows  he  has  dreamed 
And  is  dazed  with  reality.     On,  as  if  led 
By  some  presence  unseen,  to  the  inn  of  the  dead 


Gbree  tUomcn.  187 


She  passed  swiftly;  the-   pair  Mk-nt  .^lu-st  whom  she 

sought 

Lay  alone  on  her  narrow  and  unadorned  cot. 
No  hand  had  placed  blossoms  about  her;  no  tear 
Of  love  or  of  sorrow  had  hallowed  that  bier. 
The  desperate  smile  life  had  left  on  her  face 
Death  retained;  but  he  touched,  too,  her  brow  with  a 

grace 

And  a  radiance,  subtle,  mysterious.     Under 
The  half  drooping  lids  lay  a  look  of  strange  wonder, 
As  if  on  the  sight  of  those  sorrowing  eyes 
The  unexplored  country  had  dawned  with  surprise. 

The  pure,  living  woman  leaned  over  the  dead, 
Lovely  sinner,  and  kissed  her.     "God  rest  you,"  she 

said. 

"Poor  suffering  soul,  you  were  forged  in  that  Source 
Where  the  lightnings  are  fashioned.     Love   guided, 

your  force 

Would  have  been  like  a  current  of  life  giving  joys, 
And  not  like  the  death  dealing  bolt  which  destroys. 


188  Cbrcc  TKflomen. 


Oh,  shame  to  the  parents  who  dared  give  you  birth, 

To  live  and  to  love  and  to  suffer  on  earth, 

With  the  serious  lessons  of  life  unexplained, 

And  your  passionate  nature  untaught  and  untrained. 

You  would  not  lie  here  in  your  youth  and  your  beauty 

If  your  mother  had  known  what   was  motherhood's 

duty. 

The  age  calls  to  woman,  "Go,  broaden  your  lives," 
While  for  lack  of   good    mothers   the    Potter's  Field 

thrives. 

But  you,  poor  unfortunate,  you  shall  not  lie 
In  that  dust  heap  of  death;  while  the  summers  roll  by 
You   shall  sleep  where  green   hillsides  are  kissed  by 

the  wave, 
And  the  soft  hand  of  pity  shall  care  for  your  grave. 


Cbree  Tidomen.  189 


XI. 
Ruth's  Letter  to  Maurice,  Six  Months  Later. 

The  springtime  is  here  in  our  old  home  again, 
Which   again  you   have   left.    Oh,   most   worthy   of 

men, 

Why  grieve  for  unworthiness?     Why  waste  your  life 
For  a  woman  who  never  was  meant  for  a  wife? 
Mabel  Lee  has  no  love  in  her  nature.     Your  heart 
Would  have  starved  in  her  keeping.     She  plays  her 

new  part, 

As  the  faithful,  forgiving,  sweet  spouse,  with  content. 
1  think  she  is  secretly  glad  Roger  went 
Astray  for  a  season.     She  stands  up  still  higher 
On  her  pedestal,  now,  for  Bay  Bend  to  admire. 
She  is  pleased  with  herself.     As  for  Roger,  he  trots 
Like  a  lamb  in  her  wake,  with  the  blemishing  spots 
Of  his  sins  washed  away  by  the  Church.     Oh  1  seem 
To  myself,  in  these  days,  like  one  waked  from  a  dream 
To  blessed  reality.     Off  in  the  Bay 
1  saw  a  fair  snowy  sailed  ship  yesterday. 


Gbree  TOlomen. 


The  masts  shone  like  gold,  and  the  furrowed  waves 

laughed, 

To  be  beat  into  foam  by  the  beautiful  craft. 
But  close  in  the  harbor  I  saw  the  ship  lying; 
What   seemed    like   the  wings   of   a   sea   gull  when 

flying, 
Were  weather  stained  sheets;  there  were  no  masts  of 

gold, 

And  the  craft  was  uncleanly,  unseaworthy,  old. 
Well,  the  man  whom  I  loved,  and  loved  vainly,  and 

whom 

1  fancied  had  shadowed  my  whole  life  with  gloom, 
Has  been  shown  to  my  sight  like  that  ship  in  the  Bay, 
And  all  my  illusions  have  vanished  away. 
The  man  is  by  nature  weak,  selfish,  unstable. 
I  think  if  some  woman  more  loving  than  Mabel, 
More  tender,  more  tactful,  less  painfully  good, 
Had  directed  his  Jiome-life,  perchance  Roger  would 
Have  evolved  his  best  self,  that  pure  atom  of  God, 
Which  lies  deep  in  each  heart  like  a  seed  in  the  sod. 


Cbrce  "Gdomen.  191 


Tis  the  world's  over-virtuous  women,  ofttimes, 
Who  drive  men  of  weak  will  into  sexual  crimes. 
I  pity  him.     (God  knows  I  pity,  each,  all 
Of  the  poor  striving  souls  who  grope  blindly  and  fall 
By  the  wayside  of  life.)     But  the  love  which  unbidden 
Crept  into  my  heart,  and  was  guarded  and  hidden 
For  years,  that  has  vanished.     It  passed  like  a  breath, 
In  the  gray  Autumn  morning  when  Roger  faced  death, 
As  he  thought,  and  uncovered  his  heart  to  my  sight. 
Like  a  corpse,  resurrected  and  brought  to  the  light, 
Which  crumbles  to  ashes,  the  love  of  my  youth 
Crumbled  off  into  nothingness.     Ah,  it  is  truth; 
Love  can  die  !     You  may  hold  it  is  not  the  true  thing, 
Not  the  genuine  passion,  which  dies  or  takes  wing; 
But  the  soil  of  the  heart,  like  the  soil  of  the  earth, 
May,  at  varying  times  of  the  seasons,  give  birth 
To  bluebells,  and  roses,  and  bright  goldenrod. 
Each  one  is  a  gift  from  the  garden  of  God, 
Though  it  dies  when  its  season  is  over.     Why  cling 
To  the  withered  dead  stalk  of  the  blossoms  of  spring 


Gbree  Women. 


Through  a  lifetime,  Maurice?    It  is  stubbornness  only, 
Not  constancy,  which  makes  full  many  lives  lonely. 
They  want  their  own  way,  and,  like  cross  children,  fling 
Back  the  gifts  which,  in  place  of  the  lost  flowers  of 

spring, 

Fate  offers  them.     Life  holds  in  store  for  you  yet 
Better  things,  dear  Maurice,  than  a  dead  violet, 
As  it  holds  better  things  than  dead  daisies  for  me. 
To  Roger  Montrose,  let  us  leave  Mabel  Lee, 
With  our  blessing.     They  seem  to  be  happy;  or  she 
Seems  content  with  herself  and  her  province;  while  he 
Has  the  look  of  one  who,  overfed  with  emotion, 
Tries  a  diet  of  spiritual  health-food,  devotion. 
He  is  broken  in  strength,  and  his  face  has  the  hue 
Of  a  man  to  whom  passion  has  bidden  adieu. 
He  has  time  now  to  worship  his  God  and  his  wife. 
She  seems  better  pleased  with  the  dregs  of  his  life 
Than  she  was  with  the  bead  of  it. 

Well,  let  them  make 
What  they  will  of  their  future.     Maurice,  for  my  sake 


Cbrce  'CClomen.  193 


And  your  own,  put  them  out  of  your  thoughts.    All  too 

brief 

And  too  broad  is  this  life  to  be  ruined  by  grief 
Over  one  human  atom.     Like  mellowing  rain, 
Which  enriches  the  soil  of  the  soul  and  the  brain, 
Should   the   sorrow   of   youth   be;   and    not   like  the 

breath 

Of  the  cyclone,  which  carries  destruction  and  death. 
Come,  Maurice,  let  philosophy  lift  you  above 
The  gloom  and  despair  of  unfortunate  love. 
Sometimes,  if  we  look  a  woe  straight  in  the  face, 
It  loses  its  terrors  and  seems  commonplace; 
While  sorrow  will  follow  and  find  if  we  roam. 
Come,  help  me  to  turn  the  old  house  into  home. 
We  have  youth,  health,  and  competence.    Why  should 

we  go 

Out  into  God's  world  with  long  faces  of  woe? 
Let  our   pleasures  have   speech,  let  our  sorrows  be 

dumb, 
Let  us  laugh  at  despair  and  contentment  will  come. 


i94  Gbree  IRaomen. 


Let  us  teach  earth's  repiners  to  look  through  glad  eyes, 

For  the  world  needs  the  happy  far  more  than  the  wise. 

I  am  one  of  the  women  whose  talent  and  taste 

Lie  in  home-making.     All  else  1  do  seems  mere  waste 

Of  time  and  intention;  but  no  woman  can 

Make  a  house  seem  a  home  without  aid  of  a  man. 

He  is  sinew  and  bone,  she  is  spirit  and  life. 

Until  the  veiled  future  shall  bring  you  a  wife, 

Me  a  mate  (and   both  wait  for  us  somewhere,  dear 

brother), 

Let  us  bury  old  corpses  and  live  for  each  other. 
You  will  write,  and  your  great  heart  athrob  through 

your  pen 

Shall  strengthen  earth's  weak  ones  with  courage  again. 
Where  your  epigrams  fail,  1  will  offer  a  pill, 
And  doctor  their  bodies  with  "new  woman"  skill. 
(Once  a  wife,  I  will  drop  from  my  name  the  M.  D. 
I  hold  it  the  truth- that  no  woman  can  be 
An  excellent  wife  and  an  excellent  mother, 
And  leave  enough  purpose  and  time  for  another 


Cbree  IQomen.  195 


Profession  outside.     And  our  sex  was  not  made 

To  jostle  with  men  in  the  great  marts  of  trade. 

The  wage-earning  women,  who  talk  of  their  sphere, 

Have  thrown  the  domestic  machine  out  of  gear. 

They  point  to  their  fast  swelling  ranks  overjoyed, 

Forgetting  the  army  of  men  unemployed. 

The  banner  of  Feminine  "Rights,"  when  unfurled, 

Means  a  flag  of  distress  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

And  poor  Cupid,  depressed  by  such  follies  and  crimes, 

Sits  weeping,  alone,  in  the  Land  of  Hard  Times. 

The  world  needs  wise  mothers,  the  world  needs  good 

wives, 

The  world  needs  good  homes,  and  yet  woman  strives 
To  be  everything  else  but  domestic.     God's  plan 
Was   for   woman    to    rule    the    whole   world,   through 

a  man. 

There  is  nothing  a  woman  of  sweetness  and  tact 
Can  not  do  without  personal  effort  or  act. 
She  needs  but  infuse  lover,  husband  or  son 
With  her  own  subtle  spirit,  and  lo!  it  is  done. 


iQ6  Gbree  tQornen. 


Though  the  man  is  unconscious,  full  oft,  of  the  cause, 

And  fancies  himself  the  sole  maker  of  laws. 

Well,  let  him.     The  cannon,  no  doubt,  is  the  prouder 

For  not  knowing  its  noise  is  produced  by  the  powder. 

Yet  this  is  the  law:  Who  can  love,  can  command.} 

But  I  wander  too  far  from  the  subject  in  hand, 

Which  is,  your  home  coming.     Make  haste,  dear;  I 

find 

More  need  every  day  of  your  counseling  mind. 
I  work  well  in  harness,  but  poorly  alone. 
Until  that  bright  day  when  Fate  brings  us  our  own, 
Let  us  labor  together.     I  see  many  ways, 
Many  tasks,  for  the  use  of  our  talents  and  days. 
Your  wisdom  shall  better  the  workingmen's  lives, 
While  1  will  look  after  their  daughters  and  wives, 
And  teach  them  to  cook  without  waste;  for,  indeed, 
It  is  knowledge  like  this  which  the  poor  people  need, 
Not  the  stuff  taught  in  schools.     You  shall  help  them 

to  think, 
While  I  show  them  what  they  can  eat  and  can  drink 


vTbrcc  lidomcn.  197 


With  least  cost,  and  most  pleasure  and  benefit.     Please 
Write  me  and  say  you  will  come,  dear  Maurice. 
Home,  sister,  and  duty  are  all  waiting  here; 
Who  keeps  close  to  duty  finds  pleasure  dwells  near. 


Cbrce  'OHomcn.  199 


XII. 

Maurice's  Letter  to  Ruth: 

No,  no.     I  have  gambled  with  destiny  twice, 

And  have  staked  my  whole  hopes  on  a  home;  but  the 

dice 
Thrown     by    Fate   made    me    loser.     Henceforward, 

I  know 
My  lot  must  be  homeless.     The  gods  will  it  so. 

I  fought,  1  rebelled;  I  was  bitter.     I  strove 

To  outwit  the  great  Cosmic  Forces,  above, 

Or  beyond,  or  about  us,  who  guide  and  control 

The  course  of  all  things  from  the  moat  to  the  soul. 

The  river  may  envy  the  peace  of  the  pond, 

But  law  drives  it  out  to  the  ocean  beyond. 

If  it  roars  down  abysses,  or  laughs  through  the  land, 

It  follows  the  way  which  the  Forces  have  planned. 

So  man  is  directed.     His  only  the  choice 

To  help  or  to  hinder— to  weep  or  rejoice. 

But  vain  is  refusal— and  vain  discontent, 

For  at  last  he  must  walk  in  the  way  that  was  meant. 


200  {Tbree  "Qdomeru 


My  way  leads  through  shadow,  alone  to  the  end 
I  must  work  out  my  karma,  and  follow  its  trend. 
I  must  fulfill  the  purpose,  whatever  it  be, 
And  look  not  for  peace  till  I  merge  in  God's  sea. 

Though  bankrupt  in  joy,  still  my  life  has  its  gain; 
I    have    climbed    the    last   round    in    the   ladder    of 

pain. 
There  is  nothing  to  dread.     I  have  drained  sorrow's 

cup 
And  can  laugh  as  I  fling  it  at  Fate  bottom  up. 

I  have  missed  what  I  sought;  yet  I  missed  not  the 

whole. 

The  best  part  of  love  is  in  loving.     My  soul 
Is  enriched  by  its  prodigal  gifts.     Still,  to  give 
And  to  ask  no  return,  is  my  lot  while  I  live. 

Such   love  may  be  blindness,   but  where  are  love's 

eyes? 

Such  love  may  be  folly,  love  seldom  is  wise. 
Such  love  may  be  madness,  was  love  ever  sane? 
Such  love  must  be  sorrow,  for  all  love  is  pain. 


Gbree  Women.  2oi 


Love  goes  where  it  must  go,  and  in  its  own  season. 
Love  cannot  be  banished  by  will  or  by  reason. 
Love  gave  back  your  freedom,  it  keeps  me  its  slave. 
I  shall  walk  in  its  fetters,  unloved,  to  my  grave. 

So  be  it.     What  right  has  the  ant,  in  the  dust, 
To  cry  that  the  world  is  all  wrong,  and  unjust, 
Because  the  swift  foot  of  a  messenger  trod 
Down  the  home,  and  the  hopes,  that  were  built  in  the 
sod? 

What  is  man  but  an  ant,  in  this  universe  scheme? 
Though  dear  his  ambition,  and  precious  his  dream, 
God's  messengers  speed  all  unseen  on  their  way, 
And  the  plans  of  a  lifetime  go  down  in  a  day 

No  matter.     The  aim  of  the  Infinite  mind, 

Which    lies    back    of   it  all,  must  be   great,  must  be 

kind. 

Can  the  ant  or  the  man,  though  ingenious  and  wise, 
Swing  the  tides  of  the  sea— set  a  star  in  the  skies? 

Can  man  fling  a  million  of  worlds  into  space, 
To  whirl  on  their  orbits  with  system  and  grace? 


202  Gbree  TKHomen. 


Can  he  color  a  sunset,  or  create  a  seed, 

Or  fashion  one  leaf  of  the  commonest  weed  ? 

Can  man  summon  daylight,  or  bid  the  night  fall  ? 
Then   how  dare  he  question  the  Force  which  does 

all? 

Where  so  much  is  flawless,  where  so  much  is  grand, 
All,  all  must  be  .right,  could  our  souls  understand. 

Ah,  man,  the  poor  egotist !     Think  with  what  pride 
He  boasts  his  small  knowledge  of  star  and  of  tide. 
But  when  fortune  fails  him,  or  when  a  hope  dies, 
The  Maker  of  stars  and  of  seas  he  denies  ! 

I  questioned,  I  doubted.     But  that  is  all  past; 
I  have  learned  the  true  secret  of  living  at  last. 
It  is,  to  accept  what  Fate  sends,  and  to  know 
That  the  one  thing  God  wishes  of  man — is  to  grow. 

Growth,  growth  out  of  self,  back  to   him — the.  First 

Cause: 

Therein  lies  the  purpose,  the  law  of  all  laws. 
Tears,  grief,  disappointment,  well,  what  are  all  these 
To  the  Builder  of  stars  and  the  Maker  of  seas  ? 


Cbree  'Cdomen.  203 


Does  the  star  long  to  shine,  when  He  tells  it  to  set, 
As  the  heart  would  remember  when  told  to  forgi-tr 
Does  the  sea  moan  for  flood  tide,  when  bid  to  be 

low, 
As  a  soul  cries  for  pleasure  when  given  life's  woe? 

In  the  Antarctic  regions  a  volcano  glows, 
While  low  at  its  base  lie  the  up-reaching  snows. 
With  patient  persistence  they  steadily  climb, 
And  the  flame  will    be  quenched  in  the  passage  of 
time. 

My  heart  is  the  crater,  my  will  is  the  snow, 
Which  yet  may  extinguish  its  volcanic  glow. 
When  self  is  once  conquered,  the  end  comes  to  pain, 
And  that  is  the  goal  which  1  seek  to  attain. 

I  seek  it  in  work,  heaven  planned,  heaven  sent; 
In  the  kingdom  of  toil  waits  the  crown  of  content. 
Work,  work!  ah,  how  high  and  divine  was  its  birth, 
When  God,  the  first  laborer,  fashioned  the  earth. 

The  world  cries  for  workers;   not  toilers  for  pelf, 
But  souls  who  have  sought  to  eliminate  self. 


204  Cbree  TKUomen. 


Can  the  lame  lead  the  race?    Can  the  blind  guide  the 

blind? 
We  must  better  ourselves  ere  we  better  our  kind. 

There  are  wrongs  to   be   righted;   and  first  of  them 

all, 

Is  to  lift  up  the  leaners  from  Charity's  thrall. 
Sweet,  wisdomless  Charity,  sowing  the  seed 
Which  it  seeks  to  uproot,  of  dependence  and  need. 

For  vain  is  the  effort  to  give  man  content 
By  clothing  his  body,  by  paying  his  rent. 
The  garment  re-tatters,  the  rent  day  recurs; 
Who  seeks  to  serve  God  by  such  charity  errs. 

Give  light  to  the  spirit,  give  strength  to  the  mind, 
And  the  body  soon  cares  for  itself,  you  will  find. 
First,  faith  in  God's  wisdom,  then  purpose  and  will, 
And,  like  mist  before  sunlight,  shall  vanish  each  ill. 

To  the  far  realm  of  Wisdom  there  lies  a  short  way. 
To  find  it  we  need  but  the  password — Obey. 
Obey  like  the  acorn  that  falls  to  the  sod, 
To  rise,  through  the  heart  of  the  oak  tree,  to  God. 


Cbrcc  lUomcn.  205 


Though  slow  be  the  rising,  and  distant  the  goal, 
Serenity  waits  at  the  end  for  each  soul. 
1  seek  it.     Not  backward,  but  onward  1  go, 
And  since  sorrow  means  growth,  I  will  welcome  my 
woe. 

In  the  ladder  of  lives  we  are  given  to  climb, 
Each  life  counts  for  only  a  second  of  time. 
The  one  thing  to  do  in  the  brief  little  space, 
Is  to  make  the  world  glad  that  we  ran  in  the  race. 

No  soul  should  be  sad  whom  the  Maker  deemed  worth 
The  great  gift  of  song  as  its  dower  at  birth. 
While  1  pass  on  my  way,  an  invisible  throng 
Breathes  low  in  my  ear  the  new^note  of  a  song. 

So  1  am  not  alone;  for  by  night  and  by  day 
These  mystical  messengers  people  my  way. 
They  bid  me  to  hearken,  they  bid  me  be  dumb, 
And  to  wait  for  the  true  inspiration  to  come. 

THE    END. 


BV  ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX 

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